They sat quietly, gazing with longing into each other’s eyes as the courses came and went. The empty bottle of red wine was retired. And the chocolate mousse was overpowered by the sweetness that enveloped them as their hands touched each other lightly on the crisp, white linen tablecloth. The bubbling of a harp danced around them. And they felt at peace. Relaxed. Settling into each other’s shared and sacred space.
At one point, in the midst of their reverie, a large Texan man in a suit and cowboy boots ambled by their table and performed an exaggerated double-take, catching their attention.
“Well, I’ll be!” he exclaimed, loudly enough for the neighboring tables to overhear. “How did an amigo like you end up with a gorgeous woman like this? You must be one lucky son of a gun! Did you win the lotto? Woohee!”
Carolina fearfully turned to Fulgencio, her eyes filled with apprehension.
Caught off guard, a surge of electric anger jolted Fulgencio. Amigo? He braced himself to feel compelled into action by the man’s taunt. But this time it was a simpler wrath writhing through his innards. His ire was stripped of the dense sound of the surf deafening him to his surroundings. His thoughts remained unclouded by the rousing Nahuatl chants urging him to unleash his agitated fury. Instead of reflexively reacting to the Texan’s racist jab, he found himself perfectly capable of flipping a switch to activate the training he had undergone after breaking la maldición, practicing with Brother William at the ranch and El Chotay in the drugstore as they flung pretend insults at him. Whereas in the past he would have forcibly escorted the Texan outside and pummeled him into the ground with his fists, instead, he sat still, carefully assessing the man, considering what his true motivations might be for such boisterous rudeness. Might he be driven by more than mere prejudice? In the process, he noted a fading band of pale skin on the man’s ring finger, a table for one vacant in the corner where the man had dined alone, a drained bottle of red wine next to a single glass where he had sat. He surmised the man was despondent and drunk, either a grieving widower or bitter divorcee.
Suddenly, Fulgencio felt sorry for the Texan. After all, to some degree, wasn’t the man right? Hadn’t he finally won the lotto? He mentally recited the Nahuatl phrases he had taught himself during his training, aspirations which had eluded him his entire life. Ihuian nemini. Ihuian nemini. Peaceful and tranquil person. Ihuian nemiliztli. A peaceful life.
“While I don’t agree with your style, sir, you’re correct,” Fulgencio smiled placidly, easing back in his comfortable armchair. “I am very fortunate indeed to be here, sharing this evening with the woman I love.”
Taken aback, the man found himself at a loss for words. He stared at the couple for a long, awkward moment, his expression growing mournful.
“In fact,” Fulgencio concluded, to smooth over the discomfort and tension lingering between them, “I would gladly tell you how we ended up together, but the story is so long, I’m afraid you’d grow tired and fall asleep.”
The man shook his head, stumbling over his words as he replied haltingly, “Well . . . pardon me for my intrusion. My wife passed on recently . . . I’m not quite myself.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Carolina replied soothingly, Fulgencio nodding in agreement.
“You two enjoy each other. One never knows what life holds in store,” the man answered, his voice cracking with emotion. He tipped an invisible hat in deference and exited the room with his head hung low, chiding himself for his unwarranted outburst.
Carolina’s eyes examined Fulgencio, seeking an explanation for his revelatory change in behavior.
“Poor man,” Fulgencio murmured, sipping from his wine glass.
“Fulgencio,” she said in amazement. “You’ve really changed.”
Satisfied with the fruit of his labors, he dismissed the accomplishment with modesty. “We all have to grow up sometime, don’t we? We can’t be ruled by our emotions, and violence isn’t the only answer to life’s problems.”
Smiling reticently, she conceded, “I like who you’ve become.”
“I’m still working at it,” he demurred.
Toward the end of the evening, he extracted the little onionskin sack from his coat pocket and slid it across the table, tucking it beneath her cupped hand.
“What is it?”
“Take a look.”
He could see the saltwater pooling in her eyes as the tiny gold chain and medallion of the Madonna and Child glided out of the little bag and into the palm of her hand.
She looked at him through her tears, “You kept this all those years?”
“You left it in Buzzy’s storage room that night. I found it when I got back to Austin. Sitting on the floor in the corner, behind the broken cot.”
“Thank you for saving it,” her voice quivered. “Will you put it on?”
He swept behind her and lowered the chain around her delicate neck, lightly brushing against her soft hair, her supple cheek, the fragrance of gardenias lightly perfuming the air. He swooned for a moment but caught his balance, and she pulled him down toward her parting lips. A fire he had not sensed for many years raged within him yet again. As she led him from the dining room and up to their suites on the top floor, he felt a distinct shortness of breath. In the elevator, their lips met again, her back pressed against the mirrored wall. He secretly imagined what it would be like if they pulled the emergency stop button on the control panel and tore each other’s clothes off right then and there, between floors.
But no, thought Fulgencio. Tomorrow they would search for the forgotten fruit of their indiscretion. It would surely be a sin and a mockery to reenact the crime the night before. Instead, he escorted her to her door, kissed her gently, and bid her goodnight as he retired to the adjacent suite.
***
Inside his room, Fulgencio leaned back against the closed door. He wondered what Carolina was doing at that very moment next door. What was she feeling? What was she thinking? He no longer dared to assume the nature of her emotions. In a way, he felt liberated from his own controlling ways, and he hoped she felt the same way, free to be herself with him.
Sliding beneath the crisp, cool linen sheets, he slipped into a deep and comforting sleep, dreaming of life with Carolina. In his dream they were young again. They had married and brought their daughter into the world together. They shared a beautiful life, rejoicing as a family, living on the lands of El Dos de Copas. Deep in the muddled fabric of that flight of fancy, he and Carolina walked along a path lined by mesquites. He felt safe and loved as Carolina held his hand. In unison, their eyes landed on a spritely girl skipping ahead of them. Her copper curls reflected the sunlight, and her brown eyes twinkled as she turned and called to them in an angelic voice, “I love you!” The echoes of their harmonious response still rang in his ears when he awoke with the sun streaming through his window the next morning. “We love you too, Paloma,” they said. “We love you too.”