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1

The rivers gasp for breath as winter decays. The bland burble of the currents is replaced by dry silence, the silence of thirst, the silence of drought, the silence of sheets of water lulled by encircling sand bars, the silence of the windswept trees sweating leaves in the baking summer heat, the silence of the pastures where the field-hands sleep in the nude, undreaming. No flies. Torridity. A sulfurous sun and the earth a kiln for firing tiles. The debilitated cows switch their tails in the relentless heat and seek the shade of avocado groves. In the scarce, dry grass, sedentary rabbits huddle, deaf snakes scrounge for water, and birds barely manage to get off the ground.

Not to mention how the eyes wear themselves out, straining over so much squashed terrain. The view is open to the horizon in all four directions. Only by staring intently can little groups of trees be distinguished, tilled fields and paths etched in the ground by passing and repassing along the same unvarying grooves; paths which lead to ranches and hamlets containing the human attributes of fire and women and children, and corrals and pens and coops, where life pecks at the contents of the day like an insatiable chicken.

During one of these desperate hours of airless heat, Doña Petronila Angela, who was also called Petrangela, came home. She was the wife of Don Felipe Alvizures, already the mother of a boy grown to young manhood, and now some months newly pregnant. Doña Petronila Angela acts like someone who does nothing for fear that her husband will rebuke her for exerting herself in her condition, so, while seeming to do nothing, she keeps the house in order, everything just so: clean linens on the beds; rooms, patios, and hallways neat and tidy; an eye on the kitchen; her hands busy knitting or in the oven, and her feet everywhere—in the chicken yard, in the lean-to where the corn and cocoa are ground, in the vegetable garden, in the stable, in the ironing room, in the storage shed, in the pantry, everywhere.

Her worthy husband scolds her when he sees her employed at such tasks; he would like her to keep still and lounge around, stretched out on her back, and this is bad, because that way the child could turn out lazy. Her worthy husband, Felipe Alvizures, is a man who is big on the inside, which makes him slow in his movements, and which, on the outside, always make him look as if he has been stuffed into his commodious jumpsuits. He knows only a bit of arithmetic, but enough to keep track of the ears of corn; his literacy is slight, but that doesn’t keep him from reading, any more than it does others who never crack a book. Moreover, his internal spaciousness, as his wife calls it, is what makes it hard for him to put words together. It seems that he has to bring one from one place and another from somewhere farther away. Inside and out, Señor Felipe takes what room his breadth requires, to move methodically and deliberately, never doing anything rash and thinking out everything faultlessly, faultlessly. And one day, God protect him, Petrangela is fond of saying, if death doesn’t overtake him, who knows what he may be able to accomplish?

The sun spread its sultriness throughout the house. A hungry sun which knew it was lunchtime. Under the clay-tiled roofs, though, it was refreshingly cool. Counter to his usual custom, Felipito, the eldest son, arrived before his father, jumping his horse over the crossbars of the gate. Only two bars were in place, the highest and most dangerous and, after scattering the terrified chickens, setting the dogs to yelping, flushing the pigeons from the dovecote, and zigzagging to a halt at lightning pace, he calmed his horse, whose shoes struck a hail of sparks on the stones of the courtyard, and burst into a gale of laughter.

“What a disgrace, Felipito…I should have known that it was you.” His mother did not like such showmanship. The horse stood there with its blazing eyes and frothing mouth; Felipito had already hopped to the ground, embracing and pacifying his mother.

His father showed up a little later astride a black stallion called Samaritan because it was gentle. He dismounted leisurely, picked up the crossbars Felipe had knocked off the gate, replaced them, and noiselessly made his entrance except for the clatter of Samaritan’s hooves crossing the cobblestones in front of the horseblock.

They ate lunch mutely, staring at each other vacantly. Señor Felipe stared at his wife, she at her son, and the son at his parents, as they devoured tortillas, tore meat from chicken legs with well-honed teeth, and took generous gulps of water to help down mouthfuls of delicious red yucca.

“May God repay you, Father.” Lunch had ended, as always, with few words, which hung on the general silence as Petrangela consulted her husband’s face and hands so as to know when he had finished with one dish in order to ask the maid for the one to follow.

After thanking his father, Felipito approached his mother and, with arms crossed on his chest, lowered his head and repeated, “God will reward you, dear Mother.”

The meal’s aftermath found Don Felipe in the hammock, his wife in a rocking-chair, and Felipito on a bench which he straddled like a horse. Each of them sunk in thought. Señor Felipe was smoking. Felipito didn’t dare smoke in front of his father, but fixed his eyes on him through the smoke while Petrangela rocked in her chair, setting it in motion with one of her small feet.

2

Lida Sal, a mulatto girl as dizzy as a top, was eavesdropping; not because she cared about anything that might be going on, but so as to hear the chatter of blind Benito Jojon and a certain Faluterio, who was in charge of the celebration of the Virgin of Carmen. The blind man and Faluterio had finished eating and were getting ready to go. This made it easier for Lida Sal to hear what they were saying. The washbasins full of dirty dishes were next to the restaurant’s back door, a step above the street.

“The Perfected Ones,” the blind man was saying, gesturing as if removing cobwebs from the wrinkles in his face, “are magicians, and how can what you’ve told me be true when no volunteers come forward, mainly because people are so haughty nowadays. Yes, Faluterio, my friend, there are too many baptisms and too few marriages, and that’s not good. Many singletons with sucklings; many singletons with sucklings.”

“What is it you want from me? I’m asking you, face to face, to give me your confidential opinion about this matter, and afterwards I can talk it over with the other members of the brotherhood of the Most Holy Virgin. The celebration is near and if there are no women to take charge of the costumes of the Perfected Ones then it’ll be the same as last year—no magicians.”

“Talk’s cheap, Faluterio. Action is hard work. If I wanted to trouble myself with this business of costumes for the Perfected Ones, I know I could find some volunteers. After all, it’s not like there aren’t lots of marriageable women, Faluterio, lots of women of an age ripe for marriage.”

“It’s difficult, Benito. It’s difficult. People think they’re being handed old wives’ tales. With what people know today, nobody puts any store in such junk. Speaking for myself and for the whole committee for the patron saint’s festival, I think there will be no problem giving you what you need to commission the costumes of the Perfected Ones, especially since, being blind, you can’t make them yourself.”

“Yes, yes, and I’ll take steps to distribute them; that way the old customs won’t be lost.”

“I’m going then, I’ll leave it to you, and you can rest assured my offer is firm.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Faluterio, I’ll take your word, and I shall go as God guides me.”

Lida Sal’s cold soapy hand dropped the plate it was washing and posed itself on the blind man’s arm, on the sleeve of his jacket which, from being patched again and again, was now one big patch. Benito Jojon surrendered to the affectionate gesture and stood still, although he, too, was going home, home being the open plaza. He asked who was holding him.

“It’s me, Lida Sal, the girl who scrubs the plates here in the restaurant.”

“Yes, daughter. What can I do for you?”

“You can give me some new advice.”

“Well, well, then you are one of those who believe that there is such a thing as old advice.”

“That’s why I want something new. I want advice created just for me, that you haven’t given anyone else or even thought about before. New, I’m sure you understand, new.”

“Let’s see, let’s see if I can…,”

“You already know what it’s about.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It’s that I’m, how can I say it? I’m taken with a man and he doesn’t even look at me.”

“Is he married?”

“Unmarried, handsome, rich,” Lida Sal sighed. “But why should he look at me, the kitchen help, when he’s such a big shot?”

“Don’t worry. I understand what you want but since, as you’ve said, you’re a dishwasher, I wonder how you can manage to make a contribution for a costume for one of the Perfected Ones. They’re very expensive.”

“Don’t let that bother you. I have a little something set aside, if the contribution wouldn’t be too much. What I want to know is if you could give me one of those magic garments and see to it that the ingrate wears it on the day of the patron saint. He must be seen as a Perfected One in the costume I order for him, that’s the main thing. The magic will take care of the rest.”

“But, daughter, not only can’t I see, I don’t know where to find this gentleman you’ve promised to yourself, which puts me in the position of being doubly blind.”

Lida Sal bent towards one of the large, wrinkled, fuzzy ears of the blind man and said, “At the Alvizureses…”

“Ah… ah…,”

“Felipito Alvizures…”

“Now I see, now I see… you want me to contract a good marriage.”

“God no! You’re really blind if all you see in my love is self-interest!”

“Then if it isn’t self-interest, it’s the call of the body.”

‘Don’t be an animal. It’s the call of my soul because if it were just my body I would perspire when I see him but, on the contrary, I feel like I’m not myself when I see him and all I can do is sigh.”

“That’s good. How old are you?”

“I’m going on nineteen but sometimes I say I’m going to be twenty. Stop that, take your hand away from there…you should be ashamed of yourself, blind man, grabbing at my breasts!”

“Just to be sure, just to be sure how you’re built, little daughter…”

“Are you going to the Alvizureses? That’s what I want to know!”

“I will go today. What have you slipped on my finger? A ring?”

“It’s a gold ring, worth its weight…”

“How nice! How nice!”

“And I’ll owe you the balance of what you think I should contribute for the costume of the Perfected One.”

“You’re practical, child, but I can’t go over to the Alvizureses without even knowing your name.”

“Lida Sal.”

“A pretty name, but not Christian. I’ll go where your heart commands. We’ll try the magic. Right now, Señor Felipe’s carts are loading firewood at the market, so I’ll go sit in one of them. I’ve done it before. They’ll take me to the Alvizureses to pay a visit and find Felipito.

3

The blind man tried to kiss Doña Petronila Angela’s hand, but she withdrew it in time and the smack of his lips was left hovering in the air. She didn’t like kisses, which is why she couldn’t stand dogs.

“The mouth is made for eating, speaking, and praying, Jojon, and not for going around gobbling at people. Did you come to see the men? They’re outside in the hammocks. Give me your hand, I’ll guide you so you won’t fall. What can I give you for refreshment after your long journey? I am glad that you know that the carts are always at your disposal and that this is your house.”

“Yes, God reward you, dear lady, and if I came without letting you know beforehand, it’s because time is short and we must use what there is to make the arrangements for the celebration of the Most Holy Virgin.”

“How right you are. We’re almost on the eve of the great day and soon we’ll feel amazed another year has gone by.”

“And the preparations are going much better than last year. You’ll see.

Señor Felipe was in one hammock, Felipito in the other, swinging as the sun was setting. Señor Felipe was smoking tobacco which smelled like figs, and out of respect Felipito confined himself to watching the smoke form clouds and dissipate in the tepid air.

Petrangela stepped towards them, leading Jojon by the hand and, when she was next to the hammocks, announced their visitor.

“This is not a visit,” the blind man corrected her, “I’m afraid it’s a nuisance.”

“Friends are never a nuisance,” Señor Felipe hastened to declare, hauling one of his short legs out of the hammock, and sitting up.

“Did you come on one of the carts, Jojon?” Felipito asked.

“So I did, my boy, so I did. And though I managed to get here, I’m not sure how I’m going to get back.”

“I’ll saddle a horse and take you,” Felipito answered. “Don’t worry about that.”

“And if not, stay with us.”

“Ah, dear lady, if it were fitting, I’d stay, but I talk a lot and guests who talk are always a bother.”

Meanwhile, Señor Felipe had clasped the hand of the puzzling blind man and led him to a chair which Felipito had pulled up for him.

“I’m going to put a cigar in your mouth,” Señor Felipe said.

“You don’t have to ask my permission to do me a favor, Señor, there is no need to ask my permission.”

Smoking away, chest heaving, Jojon continued.

“I told you this wasn’t a visit but a nuisance. That’s what it is—a pure nuisance. I have been delegated to find out if Felipito wants to be the leader of the Perfected Ones this year.”

“That’s his business,” said Señor Alvizures, gesturing to Petrangela to come to him and, when she did, he put an arm around her unembraceable waist, and drew her close so they could better listen to what the blind man said.

“There’s some trick afoot,” was Felipito’s first reaction, spitting a gob of saliva which glistened on the ground. Whenever he was nervous, he spat like that.

“There’s no catch,” Jojon explained, “take your time and think it over before you make a decision, but please give me your answer as soon as possible because the festival is not far off. You must remember, my boy, that the costume has to be tried on to see if it fits, and the ribbons of the Prince of the Perfected Ones have to be stitched onto the sleeves.”

“It seems to me there’s not much to think about,’ Petrangela, the executive, decided. “Felipito is devoted to the Virgin of Carmen and what better opportunity could there be to prove his devotion than to lead the procession of her illustrious festival?”

“That’s true…” Felipe junior muttered.

“Well, then…” said Felipe senior, searching for the correct words with which to mediate, “there isn’t much more to think about or talk over,” and still unable to find the words for what he wanted to express, he said, “so your trip has not been in vain, Señor Benito! Now, Felipito, if you’ll see our guest home, when you get to the village you can try on your costume to see if it needs any alterations.”

“Only the Prince’s ribbons need to be measured,” Jojon said. “I’ll have to bring the costume to you to try on later, because they haven’t given it to me yet.”

“Agreed,” said Felipito, “Before it gets dark, I’ll see if I can find a nice quiet stallion for you to ride.”

“Hold on, Don Hasty Boots,” his mother interjected. “First, I’m going to make Jojon a nice cup of chocolate.”

“Yes, yes, Mother, that’s fine, but while he drinks his chocolate, I’ll saddle the stallion. It’s getting late,” Felipito said as he headed for the stables. “It’s getting late and soon it’ll be dark, though it makes no difference to a blind man whether he travels by day or night.”

4

The restaurant was hushed, inactive. Few customers at night. All the bustle happened at noontime. So there was plenty of elbow room for the blind man when he entered, leaning on the arm of Felipito Alvizures, and it was easy for him to find his way to an empty table, and for a pair of dark eyes to fix him in their fiery black pupils, lit with hope.

“Can I get you something?” Lida Sal asked as she approached with a towel to wipe off the old wooden table, worn by ill-use and the passage of the years.

“Two beers,” Felipito answered, “and if you have any sandwiches with meat, give us two.” For a few moments, the mulatta felt the ground swirl under her feet and nearly lost this sole security. She was in a state she couldn’t conceal. Every chance she got, she rubbed her bare arms and firm breasts, which trembled under her blouse, against Felipe’s shoulders. There was no lack of pretexts for touching him: the glasses, the foam overflowing from the blind man’s beer, the plates with the sandwiches.

“And you,” Alvizures asked the blind man, “where do you spend the night, anyway?”

“Right here. Sometimes they let me sleep here in the restaurant, don’t they, Lida Sal?”

“Yes, yes,” was all she could say and she was barely able to make her lips stammer out the price of the beer and sandwiches.

In the hollow of her hand, which didn’t feel half as hollow as her heart, she squeezed the warm coins that Alvizures had paid her, warm from being in his pocket, in contact with his body and, powerless to resist, she raised them to her lips and kissed them. She kissed them again, then rubbed them all over her face and slipped them between her breasts.

Through the eyeless darkness—that deep nocturnal darkness which begins and ends in black, the color of slate—Felipito Alvizures’s horse trotted along, followed by the gentle stallion on which the blind man had been mounted.

And how difficult it is to break into speech in the midst of such murky silence.

“Cool off, blind man,” she said, as the use of her tongue returned to her, “Don’t start your feeling around again.”

“My hand wants to touch you (though you think the worst) merely to offer you reassurance that I have gone to a lot of trouble to earn the ring which you gave me this morning. Our plan has been set in motion. Tomorrow you’ll have the costume of the Perfected One that Felipito will wear in the fiesta.”

“And what must I do?”

Daughter, you must sleep with the costume enough nights to impregnate it with your magic; in sleep, people become magical, and because of this, when Felipito puts on the costume for the fiesta, he will be overcome by the enchantment and seek you out because he won’t be able to live without you.”

Lida Sal gasped for breath. Her head swam. She clutched the back of a chair with one hand while, with the other, she held onto the table, as an unrestrainable sob rose to her lips.

“Are you crying?”

“No… no! Yes…yes!”

“Are you crying or aren’t you?”

“Yes, with happiness.”

“Are you that happy?”

“Settle down, Don Blind Man, settle down!” The mulatto’s warm nipple slid from the old man’s hand as he felt the coins which Felipito had paid trickle from her breasts to her belly, as if her heart were minting chunks of hot metal to pay Jojon the donation for the magic costume.

5

No costume was more resplendent than that of the Perfected One. Swiss Guard trousers, an archangel’s hat, a toreador’s jacket. Boots, ribbons, gilt flounces, bordered buttonholes and gold cord, dazzling, kaleidoscopic colors, spangles, beads, cubes of crystal gleaming like precious stones. The Perfected Ones glowed like suns among the masked troupes accompanying the Virgin of Carmen in the procession which passed through all the streets of the town, from the most pretentious to the humblest, because no one was too exalted or too insignificant for the Great Lady’s blessing.

Señor Felipe shook his head slowly from side to side. Thinking it over, he was not very pleased that his son should be involved in this gaudy spectacle but to have objected would have offended Petrangela’s religious sentiments, which were stronger than ever now that she was pregnant. He concealed his disapproval with a joke which struck his wife as the height of bad taste.

“I was so crazy about your mother when we first got married, Felipito, that people said she had slept for seven nights in the costume I wore as a Perfected One. I was around twenty-seven, maybe thirty at that time.”

“Your father was never a Perfected One, my son, don’t believe it,” she contradicted shyly and ruefully.

“But it wouldn’t have done you any good to sleep in the costume,” laughed Alvizures, a man who seldom laughed—not that he didn’t like to—he enjoyed laughing—but because, “when you get married,” he said, “laughter has to be left at the church door: that’s where the Via Crucis begins.”

“You yourself made up this story that I cast a magic spell to make you marry me. And if you dressed as a Perfected One, who knows if some other woman didn’t….”

“Other woman? Not for twenty miles around,” and he laughed and laughed, inviting Felipito to laugh, too.

“Laugh, son, laugh while you’re single. Laughter is the privilege of bachelorhood. After you marry, after someone sleeps with the costume of the Perfected One that she gets you to sport for the fiesta, it’s good-bye to laughter forever. Married people don’t laugh; they pretend, which isn’t the same…laughter is an attribute of bachelorhood…of bachelorhood and youth…because old bachelors don’t laugh either…they bare their fangs.”

“Your father jumbles everything, son,” Petrangela protested. “Laughter is for young people, whether they’re married or single, but it’s not for the old. He’s growing old. That’s not our fault.”

Petrangela couldn’t get to sleep that night. Her conscience was consumed by those nights in which she had slept in the costume of the Perfected One which Señor Alvizures had worn in the celebration thirty years before. She had to contradict him in front of her son because there are secrets you just don’t reveal to your children. Not secrets; intimacies, little intimacies. Dawn wouldn’t break. She felt cold. She tucked her feet cozily under the quilt. She rubbed her eyes. It was impossible to sleep. As sleep continued to evade her, she began to fear that at this very hour, on the eve of the celebration of Our Lady of Carmen, someone was sleeping with Felipito’s costume, impregnating it with her magical sweat and by this means seducing him.

“Oh Lady of Heaven, Most Blessed Virgin,’ she murmured, “forgive my fears, my superstitions. I know they’re foolish. ..they’re just notions, notions without foundation…but he’s my son…my son.”

The best thing would be to prevent him from appearing as a Perfected One. But how could that be avoided when he already agreed to appear as their Prince? To change now would disrupt everything and, after all, it was she herself, in her husband’s presence, who had pressed Felipito to accept.

Dawn wouldn’t come. The cocks wouldn’t crow. Her mouth was dry. Her hair was tangled from searching her pillow for sleep. “What woman, dear God, what woman is sleeping in the costume of the Perfected One set aside for my Felipito?”

6

Lida Sal, by day her cheeks more swollen than her eyes, by night her eyes more swollen than her cheeks, glanced from one side of her bedroom to the other to be certain she was alone, that absolute darkness was her sole companion, that the door was latched, along with the tiny window which overlooked the sealed pantry. Then she stripped, and stood naked in the cool night air, passed her roughened hands over the contours of her delicate body and, with moist eyes, throat choked with anxiety, and muscles trembling, buried herself in the Perfected One’s costume before slipping into bed. But more numbing than sleep was a kind of deprivation which began to stiffen her body, a kind of deprivation and weariness which nevertheless did not prevent her from carrying on a tender conversation, in hushed tones, half-asleep, with the radiant costume, confiding her feelings of love to every spangle, every bead, every golden chip, and colored thread.

One night, however, she did not put it on. She rolled it up and stuffed it under her pillow, dejected because she didn’t have a full-length mirror in which to see herself dressed in the costume. Not that it mattered whether it was a flattering fit, was too loose, too tight, too short or too long, but because it was part of the magic to dress herself in it and see herself before a full-length mirror. Little by little she spooled it out from underneath the pillow—first the sleeves, then the trousers, the back, the front—caressing it with her cheeks, holding it against her forehead, against her thoughts, fondling it and kissing it with pathetic little whimpers.

Jojon came for his breakfast very early. Ever since he had started his connivance with the girl, he ate what he liked, behind the back of the owner, who hadn’t spent much time in the restaurant lately, since she was busy making preparations so she could accommodate both her regular customers and all the strangers who would be coming for the celebration.

“It’s miserable being poor,” the wretched girl moaned. “I don’t have a full-length mirror to see myself….”

“And that is an urgent matter,” the blind man replied, “because, without that, there’s no guarantee the magic will work.”

“What should I do? Sneak into some rich person’s home in the middle of the night dressed as a Perfected One? I tell you, I’m desperate. Since last night I’ve been frantic. I don’t know what to do. Give me some advice.”

“I don’t know either…magic has to follow certain rules.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, the thing is, magic consists of this or that, but always of something and, in this case, dressing as a Perfected One and seeing yourself in a full-length mirror.”

“But you, being blind, what do you know about mirrors?”

“I wasn’t born blind, daughter. I was already grown when I lost my sight, when the weevil of destruction bored under my eyelids, and then kept going.”

“Well, big houses have big mirrors…like at the Alvizureses’….”

“Yes, there’s a big beautiful mirror at the Alvizureses’ and I’ve heard…well, it’s probably just gossip…anyway, maybe if I tell you, it might give you a little hope. That’s why I’m telling you—not to tattle—but because you’re to be their daughter-in-law. They say that until the day of her marriage, Felipito’s mother, Doña Petrangela, had no mirror in which to look at herself when she was using magic on her husband, so she wore the costume of the Perfected One under her wedding dress and when Felipe told her to undress, she took off the white gown and, instead of being naked, appeared as a Perfected One just to complete the ritual.”

“And they both took off their clothes?”

“Yes, daughter.”

“Were you ever married?”

“Yes, and before my eyes were destroyed by the sickness, I could see my wife.”

“In the costume of a Perfected One?”

“No, daughter, in Eve’s costume.”

Lida Sal whisked away the cup from which the blind man had been sipping coffee, and brushed the crumbs from the table. The owner wasn’t going to know about this meal.

“I don’t know where, but you must view yourself, at full-length, in a mirror some place,” he concluded, forgetting to add that it was almost celebration time, and that soon she would have to give up the costume, so he could take it to the Alvizureses’.

7

Stars almost shipwrecked by the intensity of the moon. Dusky green trees, barnyards smelling of milk and dew, haystacks in the fields yellower than the tawny lunar glare. It was very late in the fading afternoon, now no more than a shallow reflection in a sky beginning to blink with starlight. And throughout this rarefied region, the afternoon air was tinged with blue and pink and violet and green, but Lida Sal’s eyes were fixed, she was sunk in thought, because the time was coming to turn over the costume.

“Tomorrow is the last day I can let you have it,” Jojon informed her, “because if it isn’t delivered on time, everything will be ruined.”

“Yes, yes, don’t get upset, tomorrow Ill hand it over. Today I’ll look at myself in the mirror.”

“It will have to be the mirror of your dreams, daughter, for who knows where else….”

The luminous arc of the afternoon twinkled for an instant in Lida Sal’s eyes; twinkled like a cleft in the impossible, a tiny cleft from which the sky might peep.

“You worthless insect!” cried the owner of the restaurant, yanking at her hair. “You’re a disgrace! Look at all these dirty dishes! For days you’ve been scampering around like mad and you haven’t lifted a finger!”

The girl let her ponytail be pulled and her arms be pinched without replying. A moment afterwards, as if a spell had been broken, the quarrel ceased. But worse was to come. After the well-worded insults, sermons and lectures ensued.

“Here the celebration’s coming and the young lady hasn’t even asked me for a new outfit. With what I give you, at least you should buy a dress, some shoes, and stockings. It’s not decent to appear at church and in the procession like some ragged vagabond. What will people say—that your boss starves you or steals your wages?”

“Well, if you think I should, give me some money, and tomorrow I’Il go and buy something.”

“Fine, child, but one good turn deserves another. If you will be so kind as to attend to your chores, I’ll take care of you and buy what you need. You’re young and pretty. Who’s to say you won’t find a good match among the men who come to sell their livestock at the fiesta?”

Lida Sal listened without hearing. She scoured her pots thinking, ruminating, lost somewhere in her imagination as she watched the fast-flickering twilight. The hardest work was scrubbing the grease stains off the kettles. What agony! She had to scrape away at them with a pumice stone to get the butter off the bottom, then battle with the outside, also covered with grimy soot.

The brilliance of the moon made her feel as if it were not night; it was as if day had merely grown colder.

“It’s not far away,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. “It’s a big pool, almost a lagoon.”

She left her room quickly. She had to be back by dawn to turn over the costume of the Perfected One to the blind man so he could take it to the Alvizureses’, but beforehand, she still had to see herself in a full-length mirror, because magic has its rules….

At first, the open country startled her. But then her eyes became used to the trees, the stones, the shadows. She could see so clearly where she was going that it was like walking in submerged daylight. No one saw her in her strange apparel, so no one bolted in fright as if from a diabolical vision…She was afraid, afraid of being an apparition of fire, a torch of flaming sequins, a puddle of melted beads, of watery sparks integrated into a single precious stone in human form on the way to look into the lake, dressed in the costume which Felipito Alvizures would wear in the procession.

Fringing a ravine rutted by recent landslides, and fragrant with the freshly turned up earth, she picked her way among exposed roots and displaced rocks, and gazed at the broad green mirror, blue in its depths, below scarves of moonlight, clouds, and dreaming shadows. She thought she looked different. Was she Lida Sal? Was she the mulatto girl who scratched at leftovers in the restaurant, who had come down this road, on this night, under this moon, in this costume of flame and dew?

She swept from side to side, shoulders swishing among the branches of the pines, as flowers somnolent with drowsy perfume moistened her hair and face with kisses which were drops of water.

‘Let me pass! Let me pass!” she said, moving forward between clumps of maddeningly aromatic ginger trees.

“Make way! Make way!” she repeated, as she clawed past gigantic rocks and boulders scattered beneath the sky like meteorites, or missiles spit from the mouths of volcanoes if, in fact, they had come from earth.

“Let me pass! Let me pass!” she called to the waterfall.

‘Make room to let beauty pass,” she called to the gurgling brooks and trickling streams that had come, like herself, to see themselves in the mirror.

“It swallows you up,” she said to them. “It’s not going to swallow me up. It’s only going to see me, it’s going to see me dressed as a Perfected One so that the magic will be fulfilled.”

There was no wind. Moon and water. Lida Sal leaned against a tree which was weeping in its sleep, but she drew away in horror: it might be bad luck to look into the mirror next to a tree that shed tears as it slept.

She looked up and down the shore for a spot where she could see herself full-length. From where she stood, she couldn’t make out a total image or view her body whole. That could be done only by climbing onto one of the tall rocks on the other shore.

“If the blind man could see me…but that’s silly…how can a blind man see?” Yes, she had said something silly to herself; it was she who had to look; to look at herself from head to toe.

At last she was on an outcropping of rock pondering her reflection in the pool.

“What better mirror?”

She slid one foot to the edge of the rock in order to enjoy the picture in all its glory: glittering spangles, glimmering beads, bright stones, magnificent braids, flecks and cords of gold. Then she moved the other foot to get a better view, and already it was too late. Her body joined her reflection with a splash, after which neither body nor reflection remained.

But she came up again. Tried to save herself…her hands…the bubbles…the choking…she had become the mulatto girl who fought for the unobtainable…the shore…now the shore was unobtainable….

Two immense moments of anguish.

Last to expire was the enormous anguish of her eyes which were still able to distinguish the ever-retreating shore of the lagoon; the lagoon which, from that time forward, has been called the Mirror of Lida Sal.

When it rains, and the moon is full, her corpse floats upon the water. The rocks have seen it. The willows have seen it, weeping leaves and reflections. The deer and the rabbits have seen it. The moles telegraph the news with the beating of their little subterranean hearts before they return to their darkness.

Wavering nets of silver rain draw her image from the restless mirror and set it walking over the surface of the water; the water which absently dreams her, in the costume of a Perfected One.