WHEREAS MY PAPA, the magistrate, was respected in the town of Las Conchas, my mother had been loved.
People came onto their balconies to watch her coffin-carriage, drawn by four black plumed horses, make its stately way through the streets, and they threw down flower petals as it passed below them. In addition to being known for her almsgiving, Mama had helped fund a hospital to care for the destitute; here her younger sister, my aunt Beatriz, had established a religious nursing order. Heavily veiled, with the cowled hoods of their habits drawn up, the nuns stood in front of the building to watch the funeral procession, and many of the poor lined either side of the dirt track leading to the cemetery on the hill above the town. My father’s business friends also attended, and a smattering of the local nobility. Although rich, my father was not of noble blood, but he was respected by the lords and dons, who knew that he enforced the laws that kept them safe.
The family tomb had been opened up and Father Andrés, robed in black, stood by the cemetery gate. He was attended by a dozen acolytes wearing white surplices over black cassocks and holding long thick candles of solid beeswax. I’d heard my father order our farm manager, Garci Díaz, to have these made up specially,
‘Spare no expense,’ he’d said. ‘I want the best for my wife and my son.’ Papa’s voice had broken on this last word, and Garci had reached out his hand to my father but then withdrawn it before touching him.
Now, the driver of the hearse pulled the horses to a halt and the priest came to meet us.
And suddenly it was real for me. I’d lived the last few days crying and sobbing through what seemed like some awful nightmare, but as I watched the men lift the wooden coffin that contained Mama’s body and that of my newborn brother, raw emotion wrenched through me. The blinding sun pierced the black lace of my mantilla and seared my vision. It was true; not a dream from which I would awaken. My mother was to be put in this cold dark place and she would not return home to us again.
The horses shifted, and their bridles and traces jingled. Father Andrés began to intone the prayers for the dead: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.’
He led the way. The men with their burden followed, and then family and friends. I could hardly move. My old nurse, Ardelia, put her arm around my waist to support me. She was weeping sorely, for she’d been my mother’s nurse too and had loved her, as did any who knew her. Her shuddering sobs reverberated through me. Tears began to fall again from my own eyes.
Years ago, when he’d first been appointed magistrate, my papa had our family vault erected with pillars and statues and the fancy embellishments that he deemed fitting for his new rank. At this moment he appeared to be carved from the same cold marble, and my heart chilled as I saw his face. He’d spoken less than a dozen words to me since the day my mother died.
Ardelia had tried to explain: ‘Don’t fret about your papa’s manner,’ she told me. ‘It’s understandable that he behaves in such a way. You resemble your mother so much that it must break his heart to look upon you.’
In my darkest thoughts I fretted about this. Had I been a boy, would Papa be so grief-stricken? Did he mourn his longed-for baby son more than he did my mother? He hadn’t made any sign of sympathy to me to help me bear my loss. That first evening after Mama had passed away I went to kneel by his chair, as I often did of an evening, when he would stroke my hair and talk to me. I’d intended to share my thoughts with him; we might speak of Mama and console each other. But as I knelt down before him to rest my head in his lap, he stood up abruptly and left the room.
‘Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return . . .’
We paused at the entrance to the tomb, and I noticed that there was another here who had not addressed me or given me any kind words since the day of my bereavement.
Ramón Salazar stood to one side. I tried to catch his attention but his gaze was moving among the group of women. I fancied he couldn’t look at me because it pained him to see me in distress. His face was composed in a suitably sombre expression. Yet I could not help noticing that he wore a brand-new braided doublet with pin-tuck stitching in the Italian style. It was velvet of deepest black and topped with a collar of crisp white lace, and I wondered if he’d had it specially made for the occasion and chose the style to set off the aristocratic angular lines of his cheekbones. All at once I needed the warmth of a man – this particular man who had so often professed his undying love for me. I desired his nearness and craved his strength to uphold me. Impulsively I stepped towards him. He glanced at me and then studied my appearance more closely, and I saw a glimmer of faint distaste on his face. I clutched at him and tried to lay my head upon his chest.
Not one week before, Ramón would have sought any excuse to enfold me in his arms, but now he patted me and then let his arms fall down to his sides. Was I so ugly in my grief? I knew that my eyes were red from weeping, my cheeks blotched, my mantilla askew as I’d scratched and pulled at my hair.
Ardelia drew me gently to her.
‘May hosts of Angels lead you into Paradise . . .’
The time of committal had arrived. The immediate family entered the mausoleum. The smell of death came into my nostrils. The lights flickered on the walls.
‘Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord.’
Eternal rest.
Eternal.
For ever.
I would never ever see Mama again.
I felt my senses swim and a thundering rush in my head.
Then a strong arm was around my back and a hand supporting me under my elbow. For one giddy second I thought it was Ramón, come to my aid. But it was my aunt Beatriz who was beside me.
‘Zarita’ – she spoke firmly in my ear – ‘conduct yourself with dignity. Your mama would have wished it so.’
I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood in my mouth. I straightened up and raised my head high. On my other side Ardelia squeezed my hand in her large one and whispered words of encouragement in my ear.
They buried Mama with the baby boy she had borne; the boy my papa so desperately craved to follow in his footsteps, to manage the farm and be the proud landowner he was, and perpetuate his name.
Afterwards Papa was weary; he retired to his room as soon as we returned from the cemetery. I was left to tend to the mourners who had accepted the offer of food and drink at our house.
Ramón was there, but he did not stand by my side as he might have done to help me greet and then thank the guests for attending and offering their condolences.
My aunt Beatriz took her leave after an hour or so. She held me close as she kissed me. ‘To lose one’s mother is an overwhelming grief, Zarita. Know that I share your sorrow, and take comfort from that. I loved my sister, for she was beautiful both in looks and in nature. She is gone – we hope to a better place than this.’ Aunt Beatriz made the sign of the cross upon me, touching my forehead, my heart and across my breast. ‘Each person upon this Earth has their own hill of Calvary to climb, Zarita. I can give you but small advice. Do as your mother would have done. Continue her work. Be active in your almsgiving. Take an interest in those amongst us who have nothing. Think if there is anyone who might need your help. You may not even know who this might be. It is up to you to make time to seek them out.’
My aunt’s words were in my mind as I began to light the lamps against the darkness. Everyone had left apart from Ramón Salazar, who sat slumped a chair by the window, a goblet dangling from his hand. His handsome face was flushed with too much wine and I recalled how happy we’d been only two or three days since. A sudden memory of the beggar in the church came to me, and with it another thought. I went over and sat in the chair opposite Ramón and asked him if he recalled the words the man had uttered. But Ramón didn’t want to remember that day. He tried to brush aside my question and was reluctant to engage in conversation about the incident. Yet I persisted: the shame of my lack of charity to the beggar, which had caused the resulting horror of his execution, made me speak.
‘He mentioned a wife,’ I said.
‘What?’ Ramón drank more from his wine cup. His words were slurred. ‘Who has a wife?’
‘The beggar man,’ I repeated. ‘When he asked me for a coin in the church, he mentioned that his wife was ill, and that she could die.’
‘So?’ Ramón yawned.
‘I just wondered’ – I spoke very quietly – ‘what might have become of her?’