Carlos awoke in a strange room. He looked around. There was a chair, a washbasin, a bedside table, and a wooden closet in the corner. And, of course, the bed in which he lay. He was covered with a thin cotton blanket. The room’s only other feature was a small window covered by a white gauze curtain. It glowed with sunlight, and Carlos guessed that it had to be some time in the afternoon.
His foot throbbed with pain. He looked down and saw that the blanket had been pulled back at one corner to reveal his left foot. It was so wrapped with bandages that it was the size of a wasps’ nest. In that moment, Carlos remembered the rebels, the old mayor, the town of Rosita, a pistol shot ringing in his ears. His mouth was dry, and his face burned with shame. He could still hear the rebels, laughing and pointing and saying, “He shot his own damn self in the foot!”
Carlos took a deep breath. His sadness lifted a bit when a second thought came to him. Now I can go home. Now I will see my father and my little town in the South. He pulled back the cotton blanket and sat up. Yet when he tried to stand, his foot throbbed as hot as the white part of a flame. He howled and fell back onto the bed, his skin now damp with sweat. Wave after wave of fresh pain flowed through his foot, reaching as far up as his knee. He tried to breathe away the torment, and failed.
Just then, the door to his room opened. A young woman poked her head in and looked at him for a second. Carlos was still trying to breathe away his pain when she left, closing the door behind her.
He lay back and stared sadly at the ceiling. He was still breathing hard. His hair, wet with sweat, stuck to his forehead.
A short while later, there was a light knock on the door. Weakly, he said, “Come in.”
Three men and a woman entered the little room. One man was the old mayor, and the second was dressed in a priest’s robe. A middle-aged woman wearing a silk gown and smoking a cigar in a long, black holder stood beside them. The fourth visitor was dressed in a blazer and riding trousers, like a rich Spanish landowner. He took a step toward the bed. The soles of his tall leather boots smacked the floor.
“My name is Antonio Garcia,” he said. “I would like to shake your hand.”
Carlos weakly reached out. “Carlos Orozco.”
“I hope you have slept well. A woman in town... she gave you something to help you rest.”
Carlos realized that his foot wasn’t the only part of him that hurt. With every breath, his ribs howled. His hands were swollen, and he felt a sting in his lower lip. The pain brought back a little more of what had happened, like a moving picture shown on a screen before his eyes. After seeing what Carlos had done, the captain had attacked him, kicking him with his pointy snakeskin boots. If Carlos had not rolled into a ball, protecting his head with his big hands, the captain might have killed him.
“I hurt all over.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Antonio. “What you did yesterday was the noblest thing I have ever seen. They were going to kill our mayor.”
“No,” Carlos groaned. “I acted shamefully. I shot myself in the foot.”
“Well, it worked,” said the man dressed like a priest.
“Oh,” said Antonio. “Let me introduce Father Alvarez. He is our priest. And this is Madame Felix. She is Rosita’s most important... er... business woman.”
“Hello,” said Madame Felix. “After beating the living shit out of you, the rebels grew tired with our little town and rode off.”
“They rode off?”
“With my girls hiding in every root cellar in town, I think they decided they’d have more fun elsewhere,” she explained.
Carlos didn’t respond, as the last piece of yesterday’s puzzle was falling into place. When the captain had grown tired of kicking Carlos, he’d stood there panting, his hands on his knees. One of the others had said, “You want me to put a bullet in his head, boss?” The captain spat and shook his head. “Oh no,” he’d grunted. “I want this chicken-shit to live with what he did for the rest of his life.”
Carlos heard Antonio’s voice. “And I believe you’ve met Señor Cruz?”
“Do you remember me?” asked the old mayor with a smile.
Carlos ignored the question. Instead he looked at his four visitors, all of whom seemed pleased to be at his bedside. His eyes and his head now hurt as well.
“Whose house is this?”
“It is mine,” said the mayor. “It is the least I could do. I am staying with Antonio until you are better.”
There was a pause. Carlos glanced at his foot.
“Who fixed up my foot?”
“The same woman who gave you some sleeping medicine.” Antonio said. “She is good at such things. You will meet her later.”
“Now, don’t you worry,” added Father Alvarez. “You will remain here until you’re better. Women from the village will cook your meals. There’s also a girl who will keep an eye on you. She’ll make sure you have all that you need.”
Carlos felt tired. His entire body cried for sleep. “How long will I be here?” he asked.
The four looked at one another. Madame Felix answered. “Please, just relax and lie back. If you can do this, I promise that time will pass much faster.”
After they left, Carlos slept. His dreams were alive with gunfire and sorrow and the pain of his beating. Some time later, the creak of the door startled him awake.
The village girl was stepping into the room. She carried a tray with a bowl of soup and some bread. She put the tray on the bedside table and smiled shyly at him, showing a row of white, even teeth. She had long, black hair and eyes as big as plums. Looking at her, Carlos felt a little homesick. She was short and wide-shouldered, like so many of the women of the South. Carlos guessed that she was about eighteen years of age.
She turned to leave.
“Wait,” he said. “What is your name?”
She stopped, and turned slightly. “Linda,” she answered in a soft voice. She then nodded and went out the door.
Carlos sat up with a groan. When he took hold of his spoon, his hand trembled, and pain shot through him. The soup was hot and tasted of chilies and lime. Night air cooled the room. He ate, feeling as alone as he’d ever felt in his life.
The next morning, pain awoke him from a deep, tossing dream. He sat straight up and fought to catch his breath. He felt as though lightning was shooting through his foot.
“Linda!” he called, his voice strained.
The girl rushed into the room.
“Please,” he begged. “Help me.”
She blinked twice and fled. About ten minutes later, she returned with an old, bent-over woman who smelled like kerosene. The woman was no taller than five feet and carried a large bundle on her back. Whiskers grew from her chin, and one of her eyes was so milky she had to look at Carlos sideways.
“Who are you?” Carlos moaned.
“They call me many things around here,” she answered. “But the name’s Azula. How’s the foot?”
“Not good.”
“Don’t smell so good, neither. How’s the rest of you?”
“Nothing compared to the foot. Please... can you help?”
“Don’t worry. Probably just some bad spirits. They get stuck together and cause pain. Lucky for you I wasn’t busy. I’ll have you feeling better in a minute.”
With a grunt, the old woman lowered her sack to the floor. Fishing around, she pulled out a glass bottle about the size of a deck of cards. The bottle was half-filled with clear liquid. She took out the tiny cork and moved toward Carlos.
“Now, I’m gonna put this under your nose. When I say ‘go,’ you sniff.”
She wiped the tip of the bottle on her filthy skirt and placed it inside his right nostril. “Go,” she said.
Carlos sniffed sharply. A river of poison flowed into his lungs and up into his brain. He coughed and turned blue. A second after that, the room turned soft, as if it were filled with jelly. He swore he could hear music playing somewhere in the distance. He watched the pain in his foot turn into a pale green cloud and float out the door. But the best thing? The shame he felt for shooting himself slipped away. He felt as if it had never been there.
“What was in... uh...”
“Extracts,” answered the old woman. “Herbs mostly. A cactus stem or two. Maybe some mashed beetles. All mixed with a little ether.”
Carlos felt himself floating out of his body, settling somewhere near the ceiling. He rolled over and looked down. As he watched, the old woman took the bandages off his foot. She reached into her bag and pulled out a clay pot. After prying off the lid, she scooped dark green slime onto Carlos’s foot while rocking back and forth. To Carlos, whose back was still against the ceiling, it looked as though the old woman had gone into a trance.
When his foot was covered in goo, she reached into her bag and pulled out a bunch of dried twigs. She lit them with a match and shuffled around the room while chanting in a low voice. The air filled with the scent of burnt almonds.
After a few minutes, she stopped. Again, she reached into her bag. This time, she pulled out a small brush and a pot filled with orange powder. She brushed this onto the top of Carlos’s foot.
Just as she began to remove the green mud, Carlos found himself being pulled back into his body.
“There,” she said with a grin. “All better. Your ribs and lip will take care of themselves. Your mood is up to you. Now get some rest.”