I was struggling to hold myself still, but it escaped me. Something issued from that dark place that had opened when I was touching: barely audible, just a slight groan under my breath. Her pupil caught it immediately, honed in on that tiniest sound. I saw her enter into the recognition of my presence and our eyes met through the laced wicker. A single tear fell from the pool of her bluest eye. Not a tear of sorrow, don’t be fooled: it was a tear of rage.
Just then Sr. Candau sounded, his face all purple and distorted into a grotesque expression. He finished himself off in a paroxysm of conquest emitting a feeble, ridiculous, amphibian croak and fell back onto the bed. Gasping for breath, he dropped back and patted the bed beside him.
“Now come and lie down with me for a while. But first, get yourself cleaned up a little. There’s a good girl.”
She walked into the bathroom on unsteady legs and closed the door behind her. He motioned at me with a wink and a tic of his head to leave the room.
That night my dreams were haunted by dark creatures and contagion: dwarves dressed as courtesans, nymphs and imps dancing and drinking in an enchanted grotto. They led me into a cave, at the end of which was a door with a little lunar rune, an exact replica of her tiny birthmark, set aglow and pulsing. I ran my fingers along the engraved edges of the phantom mark: the door opened and the company spilled back into the courtyard garden. It was the witching hour of night and the hermanas Furest were there, standing with their backs to me, holding Lydia’s dog at bay. But their faces were those of old hags and each one dropped a gold coin into my hand, screeching and cackling and spitting spiders. The dog was digging furiously at a spot near the old fountain. They let it go and it ran a few yards to devour a piece of meat on a stick. The rope around its neck yanked a mandrake root from the ground and a shrill scream pierced the blackness of the night. A tiny bearded man ran across the courtyard and into the boudoir.
Something had shifted in me that day and an incipient darkness infected my dreams. I went at my colleagues in fits of rage and the only way I could calm my nerves was by drinking myself to oblivion. I was tortured by the vision of his putrid flesh hammering into her, the toc, toc, toc, of her talisman; that unnatural rhythm followed me like the hallucinatory pounding of a telltale heart. The scene had bored itself into my psyche and laid its devil eggs, spawning all manner of sinister reveries. I gave in to fits of hot need like spells of thirst that had no earthly quenching.
I avoided Sr. Candau, couldn’t bear when he looked at me with his lecherous wink, poking out the purple raisin of his tongue and oozing complicity. I did what business I could in the confines of my office, avoiding contact with anyone else, and continued to watch her in the garden. I ached to have her, to help her, to protect her. But not once did she ever look up or acknowledge me. Never the slightest show of curiosity to know if I was still there.
On the fourth day, early on the eve of Saint John’s holiday, which pagans call midsummer, one of the hermanas Furest appeared in my office. “From the señora,” she said, handing me a black calla lily. I was expected to join the Candaus for the Verbena de Sant Joan that evening in the courtyard. “La Señora has asked that you come early to help her prepare the garden for the festivities. Sr. Candau had to step out.”
My throat constricted at the thought of being alone with her and my head throbbed from the previous night’s binge. I sniffed at the black flower and tried to get ahold of myself, but the musty perfume only intensified my state and revived the sordid images in my head. I went to the bathroom and threw cold water on my face before going downstairs. When I arrived she was smoothing some loose soil near the fountain. Without turning around she motioned for me to follow her into the boudoir. She closed the door and motioned me to sit down on the bed. She was more beautiful now in this subtle, dusky light than I had ever seen her before.
“I know my husband put you up to it, and he made it impossible for you to say no. He can be a very persuasive man. But you have witnessed something that was not yours to see and you will have to pay for it.”
She parted my legs and moved in close. I reacted immediately to her smell but didn’t dare move to hide it. She came in a little closer and brushed her hip against my thigh and touched me. She smiled at the strength of my response. “I like tall men,” she said, blue eyes twinkling. She brought her fingers to my mouth and kissed me, nibbling my lip till I could taste blood.
“Alright then, I have a proposition to make. I will give you a choice.”
Dusk was diffusing the shadows and the moon appeared ghostly at the courtyard’s horizon. We hung lighted dragonfly garlands and set candles around the gallery and built a tower of twigs and branches for the bonfire inside the circle of blood grass. We dressed the marble fountain with bowls of herbs and incense, coca de forner pastries and cava for toasting. The leaves in the garden seemed to sway in communion, following some sort of organic rhythm, and the garden looked richer and more lush than usual. Every so often a black blossom would set off into a shiver like a cat’s tail, and the ferns rattled their deep green, spider-lace leaves. A slight breeze flickered the candle light and jostled the blossoms that covered the garden’s faun. I was sure I saw his merry flute closer to his mouth than ever.
Sr. Candau came up behind me and slapped me so hard on the back that it sent me into a coughing fit. The shadows seemed to suddenly deepen and panic burned the pit of my stomach.
“Lighten up, son. Let’s have a drink. Look like you could use one.”
“Here, Marcelo,” Lydia said. “It’s an infusion I made especially for the verbena. And here’s a little something for you too, Guillem. I know you are going to like it.”
“Lydia, dear, you know I don’t like those concoctions you are always making me drink. I want some real spirits. It’s been a very long day.”
“And spirits you shall have, darling. But first, humor me. Let’s celebrate this midsummer moon. It’s when the beekeepers harvest, you know. Poor bees, they work so hard then the keepers just come in and take it all away.”
I was nervous to drink her brew, but I knew I had no other choice. My fate had been sealed when I agreed to witness things I wasn’t supposed to see. So I drank it down in one long draught, resignedly. It started as a mere suggestion of something tickling the base of my spine. It felt good. I was content and relaxed. Something warm had entered my bloodstream and was spreading slowly through my veins and capillaries. My ears began to hum and everything took on a kind of dreamscape quality. I was so light, as if my skull could no longer hold me inside, and I was going up and up and floating over the moon. I watched myself from above, quite at peace with being freed of this mortal coil; my body a shell, an automata way down there in the garden below.
I saw in Sr. Candau’s eyes the shock of realizing that something was terribly wrong. He was losing control over his body, becoming paralyzed little by little. He fell to his knees, then to the ground, writhing, fighting. But eventually he lay still, looking upward at the glittering freckles of the nocturnal sky. In a last act of sheer will, he raised his hand as if to grab at the crescent moon above, to gain purchase. But then his face froze into an expression of terror like some theatrical death mask and his hand dropped to his side, useless.