The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (35 page)

As for himself, Lent was a period of testing, like Jesus was tested the forty days and nights He spent in the desert preparing for His ministry. Pacheco was at the theatre not just to judge Salia, but to test himself. He shuddered as he stared at her exposed shoulders, and her breasts spilling from her dress. He sat up tall in his seat, but could still only see a bit of cleavage.

He scanned the audience with a look of revulsion. These people should all be at mass. But no, here they are clapping their hands for the slut admired
by sinners, who have traveled to see her. Even stars from the motion pictures come to see Madrid’s star.
She has sold her soul for fame
, he thought.
Her performance confirms she is a bruja, else she could not be a devil who sings like an angel
.
She works magic on stage
.

Pacheco was one of a small circle who knew of the Esperanza family curse, since it was the Penitentes in Spain who cursed the witches during the Inquisition centuries ago. He dared never speak of it to others, else who knows what dark forces would pursue him. He once plotted with the Penitentes to capture Salia and drive her outside her boundaries so she would be struck dead. But she flashed into a fireball and escaped.

She could not venture very far from Madrid, but the world came to Salia, to worship her upon the stage. He had prayed for her, that the birth of the child would change her, but she was too far gone for even his prayers.

Pacheco smirked at the sparkle in her eyes, as she left the stage for intermission.
I see you, Salia. I have always seen you. How long can acting on this small stage in Madrid content you? You are like a bird in a cage. I know you can fly
,
but until the birth of your son, your wings were clipped
.

Pacheco always laughed when strangers from back East wandered into the Mine Shaft Saloon and spoke, in hushed tones, of witchcraft in America. Many times, he heard men whisper of Salem, Massachusetts. He knew the stories well. Those women of Salem had not been witches, but the innocent victims of lies. If anyone was looking for real witchcraft, it was here in the Southwest. The dark power of El Demonio was rooted in New Mexico, where Tezcatlipoca was worshiped by the Indians for centuries. The Lord of the Night and Patron of the Witches had branched out to Hispanics who practiced magic, like Salia, who was not only a revered singer, but married to one of the richest men in New Mexico, and mother to the heir of Madrid.

Yes, Pacheco could tell tales of witchcraft.

He could not stay away from her performance as Carmen. Each time she lifted her skirt, he sweated, fidgeting in his seat. He went home and whipped himself yet, night after night he sat, spellbound, salivating through every pore in his body, watching her. Night after night, he went home and whipped himself, until he cried out for her. Just imagining her performance excited him to the point of delirium.

This was the third week of her performance and when Salia left the stage, Pacheco held onto the arms of his seat, fighting the insane urge to pursue
her and rip her dress open, bury his face in her skin. Thank goodness the overhead lights in the theatre now blazed brightly overhead to distract him from thoughts of her undressing backstage—the valley dipping from the small of her back…her breasts—Pacheco jumped up from his seat.

It was intermission and the audience buzzing, not about the Great Depression but about Salia’s performance.

She weaves a spell around the audience. It is uncanny that she can transform herself into the characters that she plays. It is because she is a bruja
. Pacheco stomped outside the theatre for gulps of fresh air. He wiped his hot face with the sleeve of his jacket. He bit his lip, fighting the temptation to unzip his pants and abuse himself. He rubbed his hand at the front of his pants and closed his eyes.

He flipped his eyes open at a noise in the darkness. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, but it was not the smoke of a stranger’s cigar warming him, but his own heat radiating from his loins. He could make out the lit tip of the cigar, as the owner puffed. The odor of cherry tobacco assaulted his senses. Pacheco fidgeted in his pants pocket for his last cigarette, moaning because he was still aroused.

“I’ve seen you here at the theatre many times watching Mrs. Stuwart, Sandoval. You should recall the last of God’s Commandments—thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.”

Pacheco bristled, the hairs on his back standing on end. “How dare you, of all men, preach the Bible to me,” he said, flicking his unlit cigarette on the ground.

Samuel stomped on the cigarette and ground the tobacco with his heel. “A ticket in the front row must have cost someone like you a fortune.”

“You dare to say, ‘someone like you’,” he spat. “People like me exist, because of men like you. The plight of the workers has not improved since our meeting, when I strived to organize the miners.”

Samuel shrugged his shoulders. “More than a quarter of the men in the country are out of work. Your miners are free to join them any time. I do not enslave the miners, as you imply. The men are happy with the Employees Club that I formed a decade ago.”

“The men need a union, not a club.”

“The club provides wholesome entertainment.”

“Entertainment? The men need…”

“Don’t tell me what my men need,” Samuel snapped. “The wives voiced complaints that there was little to do in Madrid except drink at the bars, play pool, or take a family stroll on Sunday. The club is good for families. I even donated the amusement hall for Saturday night dances.”

“Madrid does not need a dance every Saturday night.”

“They even danced in the Bible, Sandoval. Didn’t David dance before the Lord? Surely, even you aren’t more holy than God’s chosen king.”

“The men need better wages and a pension,” he ground out.

Samuel flecked his cigar. “The wives were all for it. There’s nothing like the little woman to talk a man into what’s good for him.”

“You should talk your own wife into what is good for her.”

“What do you mean?” he snarled.

“Your wife sits behind the wheel of that fancy automobile, driving around town all by herself. An independent nature in a woman goes against the teachings of the Bible, and against the very essence of a woman. You should rein in your wife so she will not make love to other men in front of the whole world.”

Samuel smacked him across the cheek, cutting his lip with his diamond ring. “My wife is a singer and actress, and don’t you ever dare speak about her to anyone. Do you hear me?”

Pacheco touched his cut lip and winced.

“Now, get the hell out of here. You will never be allowed in my theatre again. Correction. My wife’s theatre. Stay away from Mrs. Stuwart, Sandoval, or you’ll regret it. Next time, I’ll kick you out of Madrid and that shack I let you live in.”

“And, Sandoval?”

Pacheco turned and looked at Samuel. “Si, Patrón?”

“You can forget the Penitentes parade at Easter this year.”

“Forget…?”

“This Easter, only the Employees Club will have their usual parade, with Easter eggs for the children.”

“Easter eggs?” he said with disgust.

“Surely you’ve heard that when Mary Magdalene went to anoint Jesus’ body, she had with her a basket of eggs for breakfast. When she arrived at the tomb and found his corpse gone, she discovered the eggs had turned a rainbow of colors.”

“No. I never heard that. It’s not in the Bible,” he challenged.

“Neither is your Penitente order in the Bible. We’ll have no more of that howling, screaming, and carrying on, and frightening people with chains, and death.”

Pacheco spun on his heel. “He is possessed,” he muttered, marching towards his wagon and the ever-waiting, patient Agnes, his pretty young wife he imported from Mexico from a good Catholic family, who now sat beside him, her skeleton rattling, as the wagon bounced on the dirt road, towards home. As Mayor of the Penitentes, it had been Pacheco’s duty to pass judgment on his brother, when he caught Alfonso in bed with Agnes. Pacheco had not thrown even a handful of dirt on his grave, but had stood there, stone faced, as Alfonso was dragged to a six-foot hole behind the morada. Pacheco removed the scarf from his brother’s mouth and slapped him.

With one swift kick of his boot, Alfonso tumbled into the hole.

With one quick flick of his wrist, four men shoveled dirt in the hole.

Pacheco could still hear his bother screaming.

He could still see Alfonso’s hand clawing at the earth. Pacheco had reached into the grave, removing a ring their father had given Alfonso, and placed it on his own finger. He then stomped on his brother’s hand and broke it.

He felt justified by what the Penitentes had done. In the old days, the villagers would have stoned Alfonso for adultery. In modern times, the punishment was burial alive.

As for his wife and her unborn bastard, Pacheco sharpened a knife and cut out the baby, the proof of her sin. He never meant for Agnes to die. He loved her so much.

He could still see her, lying on the bed, soaked in blood.

He could still see Alfonso, lying on top of her, with her bare legs wrapped around his waist.

He could still see the smile upon her face, when Pacheco caught them, the satisfaction that now he knew who it was that she really wanted, had always wanted, would always want.

Pacheco now turned on the wagon seat and struck Agnes across her bony cheek. “Puta,” he screamed and almost wrecked the wagon, weaving the wheels across the Turquoise Trail.

Only it wasn’t Agnes he saw before him, but Salia kissing Don Jose, her slender arms wrapped around his neck.

Pacheco jerked on the horse’s reins, pulling his wagon to a halt and parking crookedly in front of his shack. He jumped down and walked over to the other side. “Come, Wife,” he said, untying her bony wrists and ankles. The ropes were a precaution so she wouldn’t run off with some other man.

The horse was winded, with foam seeping from its mouth. Tonight, his horse would just have to stay hooked up to the wagon all night with no water or hay to eat.

He dragged Agnes by the hair into the house, her red dress billowing around her bony legs. He meant to punish her by making her wear a scarlet dress. He hated fiestas but never missed one since Agnes died, just so that she could hear the merriment and dancing, and not be able to dance herself. How Agnes had loved to dance. Since Pacheco did not care for merriment, he had allowed Agnes to go to the fiestas with Alfonso, his brother whom he had trusted.

The main reason though that Pacheco refused to part with Agnes was because, when they married, they both recited the vows
‘til death do us part’
. He would not part with his wife until he was in his grave. He left instructions upon his death that he was to be given a Catholic burial, whereas his wife should not.

He looked in the mirror, examining his cut. He applied a salve to his swollen lip, but his mouth still pained him. The patrón struck him, changing everything. He could no longer excuse his behavior because of bewitchment. It was now personal, what was between them.

He shoved a fancy black and silver sombrero on his head and skipped into the parlor.

He bowed before his wife, who smiled up at him with big, exposed teeth.

“Shall we dance, Agnes?”

Humming a ranchero tune, he twirled her around the room, her bony feet swinging off the ground.

“Aye, Chihuahua, but you are light on your feet tonight, my Dear.”

Her skull lolled around her shoulders.

He wrapped his fingers around her neck and gave her a slobbering kiss.

He let her go, and her head fell against her spine.

“You will yet lose your head over me,” he said, laughing loudly. “You know what a great lover I am.”

The shades were drawn.

A silhouette of Pacheco and the skeleton danced before the window.

43

D
uring the second half of the opera, Samuel watched Salia, as Carmen, say that
free she was born and free she will die
. She played the role so convincingly, it disturbed him.

She took her final bows and he made his way to her dressing room.

She sat there, blushing, with her arm full of roses. Her other arm was extended to an old bearded man, who leaned over her hand, kissing it.

He raised his eyebrow at the man.

“There you are, Darling,” she said in a feathery voice. “May I introduce you to Giulio Gatti-Casazza?”

The man bowed to Samuel. “I was just telling Salia that I would love for her to perform
Salome
at the Metropolitan Opera, which I manage.”

“Salome who asks for the head of John the Baptist. The dance of the seven veils,” Samuel said, scowling at Salia.

“Precisely,” he said, rocking on his heels.

“Ah, another strumpet for you to play. Perhaps, you should consider the role, my Dear,” he said, squeezing her hand a bit too tightly. He knew she would refuse with the
I’ll die if I ever leave Madrid
excuse. He grinned, enjoying this, whistling softly, waiting to see her get out of this one without sounding like a loony bird.