The Gravedigger Read online

  “Oh, so now you’re ready to hear the truth,” Juan Rodrigo said as they ate their habichuelas—a special gift from Leti, a female admirer whom Juan Rodrigo tried to avoid, except when she brought him a pot of her fine habichuelas. “Got tired of the foolish ‘sea foam feet’ of that simpering impostor?”

  “How did they meet?” Esperanza asked. “Was it romantic? Did he sing to her from the courtyard beneath her window?”

  “You tell the story your way, since you are so set on how it should go,” he said, smiling.

  “No, Papá!” Esperanza didn’t like giving in, and once she had, she certainly didn’t like being made fun of. “Tell me the story!”

  “Now you’re making demands, I see.” He gathered the bowls, clearly enjoying the reaction he was getting from his daughter. “I think you’ll have to calm down, and then we’ll see if I can tell a story to your liking.”

  “Papá!” Esperanza stormed out of the house and sat on the porch.

  After taking his time, not only cleaning the dishes but making sure all the clothes were nicely folded, Juan Rodrigo sat at the kitchen table and picked at his teeth. He could see Esperanza on the porch, the way she would turn her head just slightly to see if he was coming, then pretend to notice something new in the stars. It wasn’t that Juan Rodrigo loved torturing his daughter, but rather that he knew she was headstrong. He wished his wife, Carlota, were with him now. She’d had more subtle means of dealing with people. Juan Rodrigo remembered how she’d dealt with him that first time in the plaza, making him feel as if he directed the dance of courtship, when it was she all along. My methods may be crude, he said to himself, but they are all I have! And he went out to see his daughter.

  “Where was I the other day? I’ve forgotten,” he said.

  “The kids made fun of Sofia at school.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, sitting next to his daughter. The porch looked out over the stable and beyond that to a grove of pine that disappeared in the darkness. “Sofia became a loner, spending much of her time hiding in the woods, acting out the lives of ancestors she never had who lived across the sea.”

  “Like me,” Esperanza said. “That’s what I do.”

  “Yes,” Juan Rodrigo replied. “In that way, she was very much like you.” He put his arm around his daughter and continued. “And then sometime after her eighteenth birthday, a man in the village, a flower shop owner, named César, who must have been half-blind, began to court her.”

  “That’s not nice, Papá.”

  “And do you think she was like the ugly duckling turned into a swan?” he replied. “Is that how all stories must go?”

  “No, but she couldn’t have been that ugly, or why else would César fall in love with her?”

  “In truth, she looked like the back end of El Viejo.”

  “Papá! How do you know that’s the truth? You said yourself that César’s brother, Nacho, told you the story after he died. If he was mean and evil, he probably lied.”

  “He was not evil, mi corazón,” Juan Rodrigo replied. “And it is true that I only have his word for all of this. It could be wrong in some details.”

  “But you always said you knew when a ghost was telling you the truth and when it was not.”

  “Yes, I can generally tell, but that is because the ghosts I talk with are normally those of this village. I knew them all as living beings and grew to understand them. Nacho sought me out across the valley; I didn’t know him while he lived. Still, I believe he told the truth, at least as it appeared to him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was very distressed about what he’d done,” Juan Rodrigo replied. “I think he hoped to redeem himself by confessing it to me. Now, do you want me to tell you the story or are you going to question me all night?”

  Esperanza answered by nodding her head, letting her father know with her eyes that she wanted to hear more.

  “They were both terribly shy, so their courtship was nothing fiery. Still, when César waited each day in the plaza during the heat of the sun just to catch a glimpse of her, or when he recited his poetry beneath her window, under the moonlight, they achieved something like the beauty of lovers.”

  “See!” Esperanza yelled. “I knew he would call to her from beneath her window.”

  “Yes, it was all very nice. Though no one in the village was quite sure what César saw in Sofia. He must have lost his mind, they said. César understands the beauty of flowers. What could he see in her?”

  “How did the brother steal her away? Did he cast a spell or use a potion?”

  “Nothing of the kind,” Juan Rodrigo replied. “The brother was opposite from César in every way. Where César was thin and elegant of movement, always concerned with appearances, Nacho was round and rough. He’d been working the pig farms outside of Almeria and had returned to the village to show off his wealth. Sofia and César had been married for three years. It was not the marriage either had hoped for. They fought over everything. It turned out that César was not very good with money, and though his business was successful, he’d saved little. Sofia had been raised to be frugal, and so did not understand his extravagant ways, the fact that he liked nice clothes, soft linen for the bed. They both wanted children, and not bearing the fruit they desired, they began attacking each other. Nacho was living with them at the time, and seeing Sofia crying one morning in her room, he felt sorry for her. Of course, she’d stopped the moment she was aware of his presence, but the image stayed with him. Though he admitted he wasn’t attracted to her, at least not at first, there was something about the earthly solidity of her face. When she cried, he said, it was like the cracking of a great rock, and he felt compelled to heal the wound.

  “At first it was only out of compassion that he sat talking with her mornings while César was at work. But then his feelings changed. It was the weakness in a woman who appeared so strong that drew him. For her part, being inexperienced and not used to attention from other men, she became drawn to Nacho as well. After all, he was handsome and rough and so different from her husband.”

  Esperanza broke away from her father. “But she would never leave her husband if it were not for an evil enchantment. How could she do that?”

  “Perhaps you are too young for this story,” Juan Rodrigo replied. “I may have misjudged.”

  “I’m old enough,” she said. “I just don’t believe that she fell for Nacho like that.”

  “Sometimes a person willing to listen to another is more enchanting than any spell,” Juan Rodrigo said. “That is enough for tonight, I think. I will tell you more if you still want to hear tomorrow.”

  “Papá?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you court Mamá?”

  “It is late, mi corazón,” Juan Rodrigo replied, rising to enter the house.

  “You always tell me the stories of others, but why don’t you tell me anything of how you and Mamá met?”

  He stopped, breathing deeply. “You remember which star is your mother’s?” he asked, tilting his head to the night sky.

  “Of course, the bright one that sits in the shoulder of the lion—there.” Esperanza pointed the star out as she spoke. “But that doesn’t tell me anything about her. You say she was sweet like candy, and more beautiful than the birds, but that sounds more like El Romancero.”

  Juan Rodrigo flushed. “That’s not fair, my child.”

  “Then tell me more. I want to know.”

  He turned to her, searching for the right words, but as usual, when it came to describing his feelings for Carlota, his abilities as a teller of tales left him.

  THAT MONDAY AFTER HER CHORES, Esperanza returned to Sofia’s house. She knew the old woman was far too old to be her mother, and she’d certainly never thought of her own mother as crazy, yet she’d found herself playacting conversations with her mother in her mind the night before as she lay in bed and then again during Doña Villada’s boring lessons in school that day, and each time she imagined the conversations, the image she saw in her mind was that of the old woman with her mysterious eyes.

  As she neared the cottage, she heard yelling. At first she thought that the old woman was simply talking to herself again, but then she heard the voice of a man, a familiar voice arguing back.

  “You cannot make me leave now,” the man’s voice said. “I’ve wandered for thirty-five years, hoping to see you.”

  “Romantic babble!” the old woman yelled back. “You’ve been listening to your own stories for too long.”

  “But this is not one of my stories. This is our life!”

  “We were never good for each other. Now get out before I cast one of my spells on you.”

  “You’re no witch!”

  “Just wait around and you’ll find out!” the old woman screamed, and she must have thrown something because there was a loud crash.

  “I will not leave. Not after I’ve found you again.”

  “You’ll leave or I’ll kill you.”

  “You wouldn’t,” the man’s voice said defiantly. Esperanza wasn’t so sure. The old woman sounded like she meant it. “I’m declaring my love for you,” the man continued. “Let us fly away to the land of youth and begin—”

  “Declare this!” There was another loud crash. The man ran from the house holding his bleeding forehead in his hands. A few of the chickens flew out behind him, clucking wildly.

  “It’s El Romancero,” Esperanza said under her breath. At the edge of the woods, he stopped, looked at the blood in his hands, then back at the cottage, his face distorted by something more than physical pain. Esperanza wondered if her father looked like that when he’d heard her mother was to marry another. For her mother had been married before, as had her father—she’d gathered that much from M
ercedes on her visits to the dress shop.

  El Romancero ran into the woods. Esperanza waited in the rocks above the cottage, deciding whether or not she had the courage to see the old woman.

  She didn’t have to wait long. The old woman emerged, kicking at her chickens, then grabbing one, holding it to her, and apologizing, “Lo siento mi pobrecita. I’m nothing but an old and crazy woman. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t cry,” Esperanza said, sitting beside the old woman, putting her arm around her the way her father had so often done with her. “I’ll tell you the story of another Sofia, a Sofia with such a sad life, it will make you forget about your own troubles.” Esperanza liked playacting. She felt as if her father’s skill and knowledge might pass on to her. But as soon as she started the story, mentioning the names of César and Nacho, the old woman flew into a rage.

  “Who told you such lies?” the old woman screamed, throwing the hen off of her lap and pacing the pathway before Esperanza.

  “My father had it on authority from the ghost of Nacho himself,” Esperanza said, growing worried for her own safety and thinking of where she might run if the woman began throwing things at her as well.

  “I was not so ugly as that,” the old woman said. “How dare Nacho say such a thing!” She picked up a watering can and threw it against the house. “And César. I grant you he was a romantic, but his poetry was awful, and when he serenaded me from the plaza, the police arrested him. I doubt he’s ever gotten over the shame!” As she talked, she picked up gardening instruments—a spade, a shovel—throwing them in all directions, until she pushed herself into a fury. “Brujas y diablos!” she screamed. “They are all witches and devils! They destroyed me with their spells!”

  Esperanza backed out of the reach of the flying objects and was looking for the quickest path of escape when the old woman called to her with a voice as calm as the still pond whose waters reflected the old woman’s garden and house. At first Esperanza thought she was talking to her chickens again: “Lo siento pobrecita.” But then the woman called her by the same name her own mother called to her in her dreams. “Esperancita reinita, please sit with me and have some cider.”

  As she sat drinking the mug of cider, Esperanza watched the old woman talking to herself, pacing, again farting with nearly every step. It was impossible for her to imagine that El Romancero had once been in love with her.

  “Your father thinks he knows the truth, does he?” the old woman asked. Then without waiting for an answer, she sat beside Esperanza, drinking her own mug of cider. “There are many truths, mi reinita.”

  As she listened to the old woman’s story, Esperanza found that she couldn’t look her in the eye. If she did, she would only think of her own mother. Nor could she stare at the mouth that quivered as the woman spoke. So she concentrated on the leaves tangled in the old woman’s hair.

  “You can’t explain anything by reason,” the old woman said. “Anything!” Then she found a spot of grease on the wall to focus on, and she told her story. “I was so young. I didn’t know that you could hate someone and yet love them at the same time, that you could fight with them over everything and still miss them once they were gone. And César didn’t win me over with his godawful poetry. No, he won me with the sincerity of his heart.”

  “That’s still romantic,” Esperanza said.

  “Yes, my child, it is romantic,” the old woman replied, massaging the fingers of her hand. “But too much sincerity can also suffocate. César was a man who loved appearances. And though I was not the prettiest flower in the village, I was certainly not ugly. That hijo de puta Nacho!”

  “I think you must have been a princess,” Esperanza replied, her eyes lighting up.

  “César and I were foolish. We fought over many things. But what broke us was our desire for a child. For three years we tried, and for three years I was barren.” The old woman paused for a moment, rubbing the bony joints of her hand. “Your story was correct at least in that Nacho saw me crying one day and actually stopped to listen to me. César tried to listen, but his head twisted everything in its attempts to make life more elegant or desperate than it really was.” The old woman took a long sip from her cider.

  “But how could you leave your husband like that?” Esperanza asked.

  The old woman rose and absentmindedly picked up rags and chicken feathers, anything that was lying about.

  “I mean, you loved César, didn’t you?” Esperanza continued.

  The old woman began sweeping, then stopped and leaned on her broom. “Yes, I loved him. Though I couldn’t tell you why. We fought with such rage. And I don’t know why I left him. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t have. I suppose it was because I thought I was miserable. I was so concerned with what I didn’t have, I forgot what I had. I didn’t know that things could get so much worse.”

  “How?” Esperanza asked. “How could it get any worse?”

  The old woman smiled and Esperanza saw a hint of what she might have looked like as a child, with pigtails and a pretty dress, running through the countryside. She’d often imagined her own mother the same way.

  “You are perhaps too young to hear any more of this story,” the old woman said.

  “That’s what my father says,” Esperanza replied, crossing her arms for the fight. “But I’m nearly a woman.”

  “Yes, you are.” The old woman studied Esperanza, then spoke. “For that reason alone maybe it’s good you hear the rest of the tale.” The old woman sat beside her again.

  “I’ve heard many things,” Esperanza said, “and seen them, too! Once Margarita and Doña Villada’s Miguel were in the woods, and I saw them. . . .”

  “We didn’t run to the woods,” the old woman went on, smiling. “But we did do what I think you were going to say. And soon I was pregnant.”

  “From Nacho!”

  “I was shocked, having given up hope of a child. But there it was. Nacho convinced me to run away with him, but first he wanted to tell César. I’ve never forgotten the way César’s face withered, like a flower that has gone without water. César did nothing to stop us; he didn’t even leave his room. I remember that I was afraid he would do himself harm. I wanted to stay, but events had been put into action. Sometimes we realize we’ve passed the point where choices can be made. I didn’t know how I felt about Nacho, but there we were on the road like two gypsies.”

  “So where is your child now?” Esperanza asked. “He must be full grown.”

  “My daughter died shortly after Nacho left.” The old woman began sweeping as she related the last part of the story. “Once Angelina was born, Nacho became despondent. By then he was out of money, being more reckless than his brother. He said he had to return to Almeria to earn more. But I knew he wouldn’t come back. He was afraid and not prepared for the responsibilities of fatherhood.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I returned to César.” The old woman’s voice faltered. “But in his pride, he threw me back on the street. The villagers had talked to him by then, casting their witches’ spells and convincing him that to take me back, to accept the child of his own brother, would be a crime. César’s need to maintain appearances won out. My milk went dry, and I wandered the alleys of the village by night, looking for trash to eat. Mornings, I stole goat’s milk from the neighbors to feed my hungry Angelina. But it was not enough.” The old woman threw her broom across the dirt floor.

  Esperanza reached out to her, grabbed the woman’s hands, swollen with arthritis, and rubbed them in her own. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “They can all go to the devil,” the old woman said softly.

  “But César has come back for you,” Esperanza said, guessing now at El Romancero’s identity.

  “He is many years too late.” The old woman sat once again beside Esperanza. “May he rot for what he has done.”

  The old woman stared at the spot of grease on the wall to which she had originally begun telling her story. Esperanza took a blanket from the bed and wrapped the woman in it. “My father is a storyteller, like El Romancero. I think my mother must have loved that about him.”