Miguel Rodgriguez Esparza had been one of the few individuals within whom Fulgencio could find absolutely no redeeming quality. In fact, Miguelito was so despicable that Fulgencio had determined long ago he wasn’t even worth the cost of killing, putting a premature end to his life. No, that would have been both too easy to accomplish and too costly in the aftermath. Sure, Fulgencio had at times employed violent means to accomplish just ends. Blood had been spilled. Wives transformed into widows. Children into orphans. But not Miguelito. No, it would be too banal, too crass, to be expected. If he had allowed his jealous rage to guide his retaliatory actions against Miguelito, he would have spent the rest of his life in a maximum-security prison. And then he would have never had a chance to set things right with Carolina. So he had chosen to wait for the inevitable. Let nature take its course. Let Miguelito slowly squander his own life away on liquor, cigarettes, and whores. Besides, he knew Carolina would never accept him as a convicted murderer. Unlike the Ramirez and Cisneros clans which long had run wild on the highlands of Mexico, the daughter of Mr. Arthur Mendelssohn, RPh, was a civilized lady whose love was destined to operate within the limits of proper society. So, he had patiently waited, watching from afar. Just as he did now, standing beneath the oscillating shadows of a mangled mesquite tree on a mound, tortured limbs extending toward the heavens. The faint aroma of incense wafted past him on the breeze. He witnessed El Padre Bacalao making all sorts of signs and gestures with his robed arms in the wind as the wooden box was lowered into the ground. ¡Adios, amigo! A fate sealed in soil, in saecula saeculorum. The priest and his cross vanished, fleeing like the vultures. The crowd scattered like ashes, and only a small cluster of hobbled women draped in black propped up the veiled Carolina in her solemn promenade back to the limousine.
He moved hastily from the shadows of the mesquite, on a trajectory calculated to intersect her path.
He didn’t heed the murmurs rising from the widow’s entourage.
“¿Quien viene allí ?”
“Dios mio, ¿Quien es ese hombre?”
“I can’t believe the nerve. It’s Fulgencio Ramirez.”
As the women protectively circled the wagons, his eyes struggled desperately to penetrate the veil concealing her face.
“Carolina, I brought you this . . .” He held out the rose, his eyes melting for an instant, pleading for a sign.
As the women pushed her into the waiting car, he heard her speak for the first time in those long and excruciating twenty-five years. He heard her agonized cry as clearly as he’d heard his mother’s exhalation of rage, passion, and boundless pain the day they had lowered his father into the ground.
“No,” Carolina Mendelssohn sobbed. “Not him. He’s the one to blame. He’s the one that ruined my life.”
The dilapidated funeral home limo rambled away, past the towering wrought iron gates to the burial ground. The white rose dropped to the grass beneath Fulgencio’s shiny black boots. He clutched his chest as he watched her go, his fingers finding the delicate medallion he still carried in his shirt pocket.
“It’s okay,” he told himself, his head rocking back and forth ever so slightly beneath the late afternoon sun. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer. After all, without love we’re dead.” He watched her vanish around a bend in the road, a heap of fresh dirt punctuating the death of his treacherous friend in the background. Fate and time finally on his side, Fulgencio hungered to begin again.
Six
Disrupting the spell of Fulgencio’s enchantment with Carolina, her father emerged from his den on the opposite side of the foyer. Fulgencio nearly jumped in surprise at the sight of Mr. Arthur Mendelssohn, RPh, in casual clothes. He resembled one of those golfers he’d seen in the gringo magazines—polo shirt, plaid slacks, all-American. As Fulgencio sought to rediscover his ability to speak, Mr. Mendelssohn rescued him from further embarrassment.
“Fulgencio.” He smiled tersely. “What a surprise to see you outside of work.”
“Yes, sir.” Fulgencio fumbled nervously. “It’s quite a surprise to see you in anything but your white lab coat, Mr. Mendelssohn.”
“Yes, well, life is about more than just work, Fulgencio,” Mr. Mendelssohn said, slinging his arm around Carolina’s bare shoulders as if he wished he could transform it into a scarf.
That statement by Mr. Mendelssohn would jostle about in Fulgencio’s mind for years to come, taunting him through those long stretches when relentless toil would be his only refuge from failure in love.
“Yes, Fulgencio. There’s work and then there’s play,” Arthur Mendelssohn continued, “And you better play it safe with my daughter. I want her home at a decent hour.”
Fulgencio snapped to attention, “Yes, sir. You have nothing to worry about. Your daughter will be safe with me.”
Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she took him by the hand and pulled him toward the door. As they headed down the walkway to Mr. Balmori’s gleaming vehicle, Fulgencio looked over his shoulder at the silhouette of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Mendelssohn, standing arm in arm in the doorway, expressions of concern clouding their faces glowing white in the moonlight.
“The real question is: will you be safe with me?” Carolina whispered as they approached the showboat car, her glamorous reflection on the spotless window. He pulled the massive metal door open for her and helped her step in, her long dress rustling in tow. As the engine roared to life, Fulgencio and Carolina waved goodbye through the car window.
***
The air in the black ’54 Imperial was tense and chilled. Cold metal. Vast vinyl. And the endless expanse of the dash. Carolina’s preferred way of dispelling tension was frantic activity. Whenever she was not fully at ease, she simply buzzed like a bee. Flying from one side of the room to the other, messing with things, rearranging sweet nothings. Of course, in the car she couldn’t quite do that, so the radio was her best recourse. As Fulgencio cautiously steered toward the San Juan del Atole campus, she played with the chrome knobs set squarely in the center of the dash. The tiny red line danced around as she twirled the knobs, cutting from one song to another, crackling static between.
“Rancheras, no!” she exclaimed, skimming past a station from El Otro Lado. “Conjunto. God, no!” She jumped in disgust at the awkward accordions. “Oooh, Elvis . . . yes!” she delighted, her hands in the air, her smile quickening Fulgencio’s pulse. He was trying to remain calm, but all this energy was more than he could handle at the moment. He yanked the steering wheel to the right and pulled the car to an abrupt stop by the side of the abandoned road. As she turned her head to either side wondering what was going on, he extinguished “Hound Dog” with resolve.
“What?” Carolina protested, wide-eyed, unaccustomed to such contrary behavior from anyone, especially a boy. “I liked that song!”