Сильвия Морено-Гарсия - Mexican Gothic

“The house is burning,” Francis said as they stood by the gates, catching their breath.

Noemí realized this was the case. There was a distant glow, visible even through the mist. She couldn’t see High Place, but she could picture it. The ancient books in the library quickly catching fire, paper and leather burning fast, mahogany furniture and heavy curtains with tassels smoldering, glass cases filled with precious silver objects crackling, the nymph and her newel post shrouded in flames as bits of the ceiling fell at her feet. The fire, flowing up the staircase like a relentless river, making floorboards snap while the Doyles’ servants still stood on the steps, frozen.

Old paintings bubbling, faded photographs curling into nothingness, doorways arched with fire. Howard Doyle’s portraits of his wives were consumed by flames and his bed now a bed of fire, and his decayed and heaving body choked by smoke, while on the floor his physician lay immobile and the fire began to lick at the bedcovers, began to eat Howard Doyle inch by inch, and the old man screamed, but there was no one who would assist him.

Invisible, beneath the paintings and the linens and plates and glass, she imagined masses of fine threads, delicate mycelium, also burning and snapping, fueling the conflagration.

The house blazed in the distance. Let it burn until it was all reduced to ashes.

“Let’s go,” Noemí muttered.

27

He was asleep, the covers pulled up to his chin. It was a small room with scarcely space for a chair and a dresser, and she occupied that chair, right by the bed. Atop the dresser sat a little figurine of San Judas Tadeo, and Noemí had found herself praying to it more than once, placing a cigarette before its feet as an offering. She was staring at the figurine, her lips moving slowly, when the door opened and Catalina walked in. She wore a cotton nightgown that belonged to one of Dr. Camarillo’s friends and a thick brown shawl.

“I came to see if you needed anything before I go to bed.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should go to bed too,” her cousin said, setting a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve hardly had any rest.”

Noemí patted her hand. “I don’t want him to wake up alone.”

“It’s been two days.”

“I know,” Noemí said. “I wish it were like in the fairy tales you read to us. It was very easy in them: all you had to do was kiss the princess.”

They both looked at Francis, his face as pale as the pillowcase on which his head rested. Dr. Camarillo had tended to all of them. He’d seen to their wounds, given them a chance to clean themselves and change their clothes, prepared rooms for them to stay, called for Marta to bring her tincture when Noemí quietly explained they needed it. After imbibing it, they had all experienced headaches and nausea, which quickly eased. Except for Francis. Francis had drifted into a deep slumber from which he couldn’t be roused.

“Tiring yourself won’t help him,” Catalina said.

Noemí crossed her arms. “I know, I know.”

“Do you want me to keep you company?”

“I’m fine. I swear, I’ll go to bed soon. I also don’t really want to. I’m not tired.”

Catalina nodded. They were both quiet. Francis’s chest rose and fell steadily. If he was dreaming, the dreams were not unpleasant. She almost felt sorry for wishing him awake.

The truth was she was afraid of going to bed, of what nightmares might uncoil in the dark. What did people do after witnessing the horrors they had seen? Was it possible to slip back into normality, to play pretend and go on? She wanted to think this was exactly the case, but she was afraid sleep would prove her wrong.

“The doctor says two police officers and a magistrate are arriving tomorrow from Pachuca and your father will be here too.” Catalina adjusted her shawl. “What will we say to them? I don’t think they’ll believe us.”

Upon stumbling onto a pair of farmers with their donkeys behind them, the bloodied, bruised, and tired trio had not really agreed what tale they would tell, and the farmers were too shocked by the sight of them to ask much. Instead they quietly guided them to El Triunfo. Later, as they were ushered into Dr. Camarillo’s house, it had been necessary to fabricate a story, and Noemí had simplified their tale, saying that Virgil had gone mad and attempted to repeat his sister’s murderous actions, killing all the inhabitants of High Place, this time by setting the house on fire.

This, however, did not explain why Noemí had been wearing an old wedding dress and Francis was in a matching wedding suit, nor why both women’s clothes were stained with so much blood.

Noemí was pretty sure Camarillo didn’t believe their version of events, but he pretended to. In his weary eyes Noemí had read a tacit understanding.

“My father will help smooth things out.”

“I hope so,” Catalina said. “What if they should charge us? You know.”

Noemí doubted anyone could hold them in place; there wasn’t even a jail in El Triunfo. If anything, they’d be sent to Pachuca, but she didn’t think they’d do such a thing. Statements would be taken, a cursory report would be typed up, but they couldn’t really prove much.

“Tomorrow we’ll go home,” Noemí said firmly.

Catalina smiled, and Noemí, though tired, was glad to see that smile. It was the smile of the sweet young woman she’d grown up with. It was her Catalina.

“Well, then, get some sleep,” Catalina said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “They’ll be here early in the morning.”

The women hugged, one long, tight embrace, Noemí unwilling to cry. Not now. Then Catalina gently brushed the hair from her face and smiled again.

“I’m down the hall if you need me,” she said.

Catalina took one last look at the young man and closed the door behind her.

Noemí placed her hand in the pocket of her sweater and felt the lighter there. Her lucky talisman. Finally she took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes that Camarillo had given her the previous day.

She lit the cigarette, tapped her foot, and let the ashes fall into an empty bowl. Her back ached. She had been sitting in that uncomfortable chair for a long time but refused to go away even though first Camarillo and then Catalina had come to poke at her. When she had taken but a few puffs of the cigarette Francis stirred, and she dropped the cigarette onto the bowl and placed the bowl on the dresser, waiting.

He had moved like this before, a faint tilting of the head, but this time she thought it was different. She touched his hand.

“Open your eyes,” she whispered. Ruth had said the same words to her many times, in fear and terror, but Noemí’s voice was warm.

She was rewarded by his eyes fluttering a little, then more, until they focused on her.

“Hello there,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Let me get you some water.”

There was a carafe on the dresser. She filled a glass and helped him drink.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“God, no. Maybe later. I feel terrible.”

“You look terrible,” she replied.

His lips formed a fragile smile, and he let out a chuckle. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“You slept two whole days. I thought I’d have to dislodge an apple from your throat, like a poor imitation of Sleeping Beauty.”

“Snow White.”

“Well. You look pale enough.”

He smiled anew and attempted to position himself better against the headboard, his smile waning. “Is it all gone?” he asked, his voice a worried, anxious whisper.

“A couple of townspeople went up the mountain to see what was left of the house. They told us it was a bunch of smoldering ruins. High Place is gone, and the fungus must be gone with it.”