The Gravedigger Read online

  “Good lady,” El Romancero responded, visibly flustered. “If you don’t mind . . .”

  “You are no better than a worm!” she screamed, the sound of her voice driving El Romancero back against the curtain. “A worm making his living by distorting other people’s lives.”

  “Do I know you?” El Romancero asked, and there was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

  “I curse you with the vilest of curses!” the old woman ranted. “May your tongue shrivel up, and your heart grow empty as mine has done!” And with that, she stormed away, cursing the villagers as she passed them. Poor Matilde actually fainted when the old woman grabbed her by the cheek and called her a whore!

  El Romancero had grown pale as a result of the disturbance, and with the appropriate theatrical flourish begged to be given a brief respite during which he could gather himself to continue with the tragic tale.

  Esperanza ran to her father, while the villagers gossiped wildly about the appearance of the old woman. “Is that the one I’ve heard about?” she asked her father. “The witch who cursed the birds so that they don’t come around anymore?” And, not receiving an answer, she continued talking to herself. “Her eyes were flecked with gold, like Mamá’s.”

  Juan Rodrigo looked at his daughter, the light in her own eyes reminding him more of her mother than anything else. “Really,” he replied. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Yes. Yes. They were just like you told me Mamá’s were,” Esperanza continued. “You said that the gold came from the Berber blood, and that Mamá must have had some.”

  “And you as well.”

  “Maybe she’s a Berber sorceress from Africa!” Esperanza clapped her hands together. “Or maybe she’s an escaped slave of the Caliphate.”

  “I’m sure she’s none of that, mi corazón.”

  “Is she from this village?” Esperanza asked, not really wanting to hear the answer, as it would mean an end to her fantasies.

  “Yes,” he replied. “She has lived on the outskirts for a long time. But she rarely makes herself known.”

  Just then El Romancero returned to the stage with an alacrity that belied his age and the fact that he had recently appeared so shaken. “Good people,” he called out. “I do not want to deprive you of my tale’s end.”

  “No, we wouldn’t want that,” Juan Rodrigo said. Normally, Esperanza would have given him a pinch or a kick for such a comment, but this time she didn’t hear him, as she was still thinking of the old woman’s golden eyes.

  “If you’ll grant me your indulgence, I shall continue,” El Romancero said, sitting now on the edge of the stage itself, gently plucking the strings of his guitar. He waited until all was silent, then began. “Learned in the art of sorcery, Esteban bewitched poor Maia.” The children in the audience leaned forward. “And she gave herself to him, though her heart was aware of her body’s betrayal.”

  The music increased in tempo. “Juan Carlos knew nothing of his brother’s treachery, but the fairies sensed that their beloved Maia was heartsick.” And now, as it would until the end of the tale, the music moved like a heavy march, building the tension. “Planning to take his treasure far from his brother’s kingdom, he sat his prize atop his horse and then mounted another, taking only a few possessions and riding through the fairies’ woods. But Maia reined her horse in as they entered the woods, her broken heart exerting itself to return to her beloved Juan Carlos. The fairies took advantage of the moment and unleashed their magic. Maia’s snow-white neck grew long, her arms extending into wings as she flew from her horse. She flew high above the treetops only to settle in the same pond she’d visited so often before. Esteban’s face grew flat, his skin turned green, and his body elongated. He slithered off his horse and snaked his way into the woods, never to be heard from again. Juan Carlos, of course, searched high and low for his beloved, often visiting the pond where he’d first espied her, but seeing there only a beautiful swan. He swore that if ever he found her, he would take her to the land of eternal youth.”

  El Romancero strummed his guitar to a crescendo. Then, all in one grand movement, he rose, flipped his cape around him, and bowed deeply. “Thank you, my gracious people. Thank you for allowing an artist to unburden his heart!”

  “Now I’ve heard everything,” Juan Rodrigo said.

  “As you all know,” El Romancero continued, “the work of an artist is difficult, the monetary rewards few. So, if you would be so kind, my hat awaits your generous thanks.” He twirled the cap from his head and walked through the audience, bowing graciously to each villager who tossed in a coin.

  “It’s a wonder he can get up after such bows,” Juan Rodrigo said, winking at his friends.

  “Papá,” Esperanza implored. “You’re not being fair. He’s a good man, and his story was beautiful.”

  “Mi corazón . . .” Juan Rodrigo replied.

  “And she turned into a swan. How lovely!” Esperanza went on. “I’ll bet Juan Carlos found Maia and then hired a sorcerer to change him into a swan as well so he could be with his beloved forever.”

  “It would serve him right to be turned into a bird!” Juan Rodrigo said, laughing.

  Juan Rodrigo and his friends said their good-byes, and as he and Esperanza made their way down the path through the olive trees to their home, Esperanza clung to her father’s arm, talking dreamily of the lovers’ tale. The afternoon sun filtered through the olive branches, creating a shadow play of light and dark on the pathway before her, fueling her imagination; the sound of the wind whistling through the cliffs made the perfect accompaniment to her fantasies.

  “That manipulator of truth knows better,” Juan Rodrigo told her. “The way he carts himself from town to town, peddling those theatrical clichés he calls stories! He knows the truth as well as I.”

  “You know the story of Juan Carlos and Maia?” Esperanza asked. “Papá, tell it to me again.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t like the way I tell it, Esperanza,” Juan Rodrigo said, pulling his daughter close. He enjoyed walking with her. It seemed these moments came seldom lately. “You see, the real Juan Carlos was no Aragonese lord, he was a flower shop owner named César, who lived in the village on the other side of the valley, and Maia was a sickly girl named Sofia who had hardly any friends.”

  “Papá, you’re not even talking about the same people.”

  “Yes, they are the same,” Juan Rodrigo replied. “Their story has been forgotten over time, distorted by traveling charlatans, but it remains their story nonetheless.”

  The setting sun was behind them now, and the first stars appeared before them. Esperanza shivered, and Juan Rodrigo took off the tattered brown suit jacket he wore whenever he went into the village and placed it around her shoulders. “Not every star in the night sky represents the life of a king or hero,” he said. “There are a few reserved for the common folk.” Juan Rodrigo stopped and pointed at the sky. “I have it on good authority, for example, that the bright one just over the horizon there is reserved for you,” he said, winking at his daughter. “Though I would not begin to say that you are common, and I think it will be many years before that star will have your willful spirit to fire its light.”

  “Which stars hold the spirits of Sofia and César, Papá?”

  “None, yet,” he replied. “For their story is not over. César’s supposedly evil brother, whose name was Nacho, died a long time ago, and no one knows what happened to Sofia or César.”

  “How do you know about them, Papá?” Esperanza sat on a nearby rock, hoping to hear more.

  “Nacho told me after he died,” Juan Rodrigo replied, sitting down next to his daughter. “It is a beautiful night, is it not?”

  “Yes, Papá, but tell me more,” she said, squeezing his hand.

  “Well,” Juan Rodrigo said, looking to the trees and rocks, as if for approval. “Shortly after your mother died, a ghost came to visit me. Very strange, as this ghost was from the village across the valley.” The wind picked up,
and Juan Rodrigo stopped to listen to its mournful moan. Satisfied with what the wind said, he nodded his head, knowing it was all right to continue the story. “Across the valley they don’t have a gravedigger anymore,” he said. “It seems they don’t believe in them. They’ve gone modern, even offering cremations!” Juan Rodrigo stopped and chuckled to himself.

  “What are cremations, Papá?”

  “You don’t want to know, mi corazón,” Juan Rodrigo replied. “For in a cremation the body does not get the time to adjust to its new situation. No time to greet the earth, to return to it slowly.” He shook his head. “That is why the ghost traveled across the valley to me, for a living being to whom he could tell his story.”

  “That was Nacho, the evil brother, right?”

  “He was not evil,” Juan Rodrigo said, turning to her. “Life is rarely so simple as good and evil, though the church and the politicians would like us to believe that way!”

  “Tell me,” Esperanza demanded, “did Nacho put a spell on her?”

  “No,” Juan Rodrigo replied. “Nothing like that. But, to understand what happened, you must hear the story from the beginning.”

  Esperanza listened, wide-eyed. He began the story the way he always began his stories: “On the day she was born the lizards came to the village by the hundreds and settled upon the outer walls and porches of the houses. Upon seeing the ugliness of her face, they stayed for seven days and seven nights, covering the village in their mierda. It took them a month to wash all that shit away.”

  “No, Papá,” Esperanza interrupted. “She was not ugly. She was beautiful, with snow-white skin like a swan.”

  “I’m sorry to say it, but she was ugly,” Juan Rodrigo replied, looking into his daughter’s eyes, wishing he could tell the story the way she wanted it but knowing that would not be right. “She fought constantly at school, as the kids made fun of her.”

  “No!” Esperanza screamed, pulling away from her father, standing before him. “If you’re not going to tell it right, then I don’t want to hear it.”

  Juan Rodrigo rose, wiping off his hands on his trousers. “It’s your choice, mi corazón,” he said. “I can only tell stories that have truth.”

  “But how do you know that your story is the true one?”

  Juan Rodrigo paused, frowning at his daughter. He hated when she did this. Then he gazed at the stars, searching for an answer. Finding none, he cocked his head, listening to the wind, but since no answer was forthcoming there either, he decided to rely on his paternal authority. “I just know, that’s all!”

  “Well, I’m not going to listen,” Esperanza replied, turning from him.

  They walked the rest of the way home under the moonlight, Esperanza desperately wanting to hear the rest of the story but not wanting to concede on so important a point, and Juan Rodrigo wishing he could give in to his daughter’s desire but knowing he was unable.

  THROUGHOUT THE REMAINDER of the week, Esperanza found herself dreaming day and night about the lovers; she’d also not forgotten the fact that the old woman’s eyes were so much like her mother’s. She’d thought she knew everyone in the village, and the fact that her father and the other adults had kept the woman’s presence a secret intrigued her, at least just enough that on the following Saturday, after going to the Oliveiras’ for milk and fresh baked bread, Esperanza took the long route home, passing close to the area where she’d heard the old woman lived. She’d dropped subtle questions around the village all week, picking up bits of information, mostly rumors about the spells the old woman had supposedly cast on various villagers over the years, but she also got a sort of general agreement as to the location of the old woman’s cottage.

  The way wound through the cliffs across the village from Esperanza’s house. It was arduous going at first, as the cliffs on the western end dropped steeply, leveling out only after seventy meters or so and finally opening to a pine-and-fir forest with cork oak and poplars interspersed throughout. The rocks kept Esperanza entertained, as she loved climbing, and, once in the forest, she imagined herself to be the beautiful Maia, with fairies as her servants. Her daydreams kept her fear at bay, for in truth she was afraid; these woods were unfamiliar to her. The trees seemed closer together, and the red rocks took on a darker shade, as if bruised by the little sunlight that made it through the trees.

  Esperanza walked warily, not really wanting to meet the old woman, but rather hoping for a glance again of those eyes so that she could imagine what her mother must have looked like, if only for a moment. And besides, she could tell her friends that she’d found the old woman’s house. They wouldn’t believe her, and she’d have the added pleasure of leading an expedition there.

  The stone cottage sat next to a small pond, whose waters reached nearly to the garden that wrapped around the house. The entire area was overgrown with scrub oak that pricked Esperanza’s legs as she walked. She couldn’t see the old woman, but she could hear her singing, her voice scratched and broken, like one who has eaten her way up from beneath the earth.

  When Esperanza stepped forward, the singing stopped. She turned to run, but the woman was before her.

  “What do you want?” the old woman asked, her voice even more rough than when she sang.

  Esperanza’s legs urged her homeward. But, instead, much to her surprise, she kept her head low and answered, “I am Esperanza Rodrigo. My father is the gravedigger.” I will be polite, she thought. And then I will tell her I must go to help my father. Her mind attempted to convince her that she remained of her own free will, when in reality, while she was afraid to stay, she was even more afraid to run. The old woman might take offense and turn her to stone.

  “An ancient profession,” the old woman said. “I didn’t know they existed anymore.” And saying that, she leaned in close, as if she couldn’t see well and wished to study the girl before her.

  The skin of the woman’s face appeared dark and deeply wrinkled, like rock chiseled away by wind and time. The front teeth in both the top and bottom of her mouth were missing, and her breath smelled of garlic and rotten apples.

  “Are you a little imp sent by the witches of the village?” the old woman asked, her face hovering inches from Esperanza’s. The stench of sour milk could now be added to the other foul odors on her breath.

  Esperanza raised her gaze, willing herself to focus on the old woman’s eyes, which, though they were tired and red, were flecked with gold. Leaves rested in the woman’s hair as if they’d simply fallen from the trees and landed there.

  “No,” she answered. “I told you. I’m the daughter of Juan Rodrigo, the gravedigger.”

  “Does your father talk to ghosts?”

  “Yes.” Esperanza stepped backward, again thinking of escape. The old woman moved closer.

  “Good!” The old woman cackled. “Maybe I’ll talk to him once I’m dead. I have been alone for far too long.”

  “My father needs me to help him.”

  “Nonsense!” The old woman grabbed Esperanza by the arm before she had a chance to get away. “You will sit with me and tell me what you know of the village. I bet you’ve never tasted anything like my apple cider.” With that, the old woman let go of Esperanza and turned for the door. “Come,” she said. “Tell me, is Matilde still the gossip she always was? And Isabel’s garden, is it still the most beautiful in the village?” She didn’t wait for an answer but rather walked to her back door, farting with each step. Esperanza let slip a giggle, then covered her mouth, afraid she would anger the woman. But the old woman simply waved her hand back through the door, signaling for Esperanza to enter.

  Halfway through her mug, Esperanza decided the old woman’s cider was the best she’d ever tasted. Little did she know it was made with alcohol! The old woman talked to herself most of the time, occasionally asking Esperanza a question about some person or other in the village.

  The woman lived with an old goat and an assortment of hens, all of which had free rein in her house. Esperanza watch
ed as she talked to each of them, asking what mischief they’d been into while she’d been out. The old woman had names for each one, grand names that sounded foreign to Esperanza. The goat’s name was Balthasar; Esperanza liked him, though he kept nuzzling his face under her arm, attempting to drink her cider.

  “I’ve told you my name,” Esperanza said, finishing her mug, “but you haven’t told me yours. That’s not good manners.” The cider had erased all trace of fear in her now.

  At first the woman didn’t hear her, she was so busy feeding her chickens. She threw the feed over her floor, and the chickens scampered around, creating quite a riot. Esperanza tried again, but to no avail. Then she noticed one of the chickens had a bad leg. It hobbled across the floor trying to get the feed but was always beaten out by another hen. Esperanza reached into the bag of feed and brought it to the hen, who immediately started eating out of her hand.

  “My name is Sofia,” the old woman said.

  Esperanza turned too quickly, and the hen bit her finger. “Hey,” she said, dropping the feed.

  She didn’t really believe it; the old woman didn’t fit her conception of the Sofia her father had mentioned. For one thing, she still believed that the Sofia in the story had been beautiful, no matter what her father had said; for another, she couldn’t conceive of the ancient woman before her as ever having been young. And besides, she thought, that other Sofia had lived across the valley; it’s not possible that she could have come so far. But the real reason was that at some level she’d already begun to think of the woman as her mother. Of course, she imagined her mother as much more beautiful, but it was not beauty she was thinking of, rather it was the feeling of being cared for.

  On her way home that afternoon, she found herself wondering about the life of the old woman, trying to relate it to what she knew of her mother’s life. Was the old woman from a good family, as her mother had been? Had she ever been in love? And if so, was it to a poor man like her father? She had so many questions by the time she was home that when her father arrived from his Saturday afternoon checkers match with José and Enrique, she asked him if he could tell her the story of Sofia and César.