Eufemia and José

NOTE: Beginning today and for the next ten weeks I’m posting Magic Realism stories written under my persona of Gervasio Arrancado. The first five stories also form a collection titled Stories from the Cantina. The others are separate. I hope you will enjoy them.

José Dominguez de Silva was orphaned when his mother took her own life a few weeks after his birth and two days after his father, a fisherman, was swept overboard and drowned during a sudden storm. According to the stories he had heard over the years from the nuns, he had no known relatives, although they seemed always to stress the word “known.”

They looked away and crossed themselves whenever they said so too. It was as if they were telling a half-truth. Or, perhaps, as if they had wanted to adjust the original comment to something like “no known relatives who wanted you” or “no known relatives who thought you worthy” or “no known relatives who were human.”

Whatever the case, he had been delivered to the orphanage as an infant, and he had remained there until he struck out on his own at the age of twelve.

On the morning of his departure, he had packed his few belongings into a homemade backpack the nuns had made for him and walked the long main hallway toward the front entrance.

The nuns had gathered there on either side of the hallway and took turns hugging him. The next to the last one, Sister Bartolome, hugged him a bit longer than the others had. Then she held him at arm’s length and looked at him for a moment. “Now José, will you seek your bro—”

The chief nun pulled him away from Sister Bartolome and stepped between them. “Sister! Young señorito Dominguez will seek to make his way in the world. He will seek a job and he will seek a place to live! He will become a productive member of society. There is nothing else for him to seek.” She glanced at José and forced a smile. “And he will know he has a home here whenever he wants it.”

Then she stooped in front of José, put her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face the door. In her stern monotone, she said, “You go now, José. And let us know from time to time how you are. We will miss you.”

* * *

The exchange was a bit baffling for José. He had never harbored a compunction to search for relatives, known or unknown, willing or resistant, despite the dreams he had experienced for the past couple of years.

Once a month or so, a soft, kind voice like that of Sister Bartolome had come to him from the darkness, explaining that his father had been a brave fisherman lost at sea; that his mother, bereft in her grief, had taken her own life shortly after his birth; and that he was the very special thirteenth child of a thirteenth child, his father, of a thirteenth child, his grandfather and so on back 12 generations.

Even without the odd dreams—or perhaps because of them, he could not be sure which—he had always assumed there were others of his family, even brothers and sisters, for he had never felt completely alone in his soul, as he assumed one who truly had nobody would feel.

But his soul shrugged with indifference, for he also assumed if his relatives had wanted to see him, they must have known where he was and the trip would have been easier on them than on him.

Still, the fact that none of them had looked him up was of no consequence. He shrugged into his pack and said quietly, “It simply is what it is.” And with that he began his journey up the coast.

* * *

Within a few weeks, José landed a job as a fisherman like his father before him with a small fleet up the coast in Bahia Rio. Unlike most working men at the time, he had been taught to read and write. And unlike many people of the time we are living in now, he had been taught and even encouraged to use his mind. He made the most of his talents.

His occupation gave him a lot of time to think, and he was always coming up with ways to make more money. He talked little, listened a lot, and read whenever he had the chance. He read legends, almanacs, histories, maps and charts. He listened closely to everything from rumors to good-natured blather to gossip to the unofficial reports of other fishermen as they bragged or complained to their companions in the cantina.

He listened as others discussed events or news from farther up or down the coast or even from distant ports. His knack for discerning which claims were empty bragging and which were more likely to be true was uncanny.

Given all that free information, José would toss into the mixture the myriad physical facts as they existed at the time—such as the weather, temperature, wind direction and speed, and the phase of the moon—then construct a prediction primarily of intelligent, informed conjecture.

Sometimes, aboard ship or at the docks or in a local cantina, as he and his shipmates discussed a topic that worked to his advantage, he would put his hand to his forehead as if receiving a message from the universe. He would develop a prediction on the spot concerning what his shipmates and others might expect in the near future.

If he were around only his shipmates, he would deliver the message quietly, in a mysterious near monotone. If others were around, as might be the case in a cantina or on the docks at certain times of the day, he would speak more loudly but still in the monotone. And perhaps waver a bit in his chair or on his feet as if the vision had almost overpowered him.

Whether performed only in front of his shipmates or among others, his act seemed always to generate great interest. And when he came out from under the hold of the “vision,” which of course was always just enough beyond belief to make people hungry to believe it, at least one listener would be looking askance at him.

José would meet that person’s gaze and say, “You don’t believe, of course, for no sensible man would. But as God is my witness, I stand by my prediction. In fact, I am willing to place a wager on it.”

Greed did the rest.

Some called his predictions prophecy. Others, most notably those with less-favorable dispositions, called them trickery. Many were surprised at how often the predictions came true.

The early predictions had to do with how much he and his fellows might enjoy success fishing for certain species at certain places and at certain times of the year. The species and places and times, of course, were always against the norm. For these predictions he wagered only a little with each man, but he seldom lost.

Of course, he had no qualms about slipping out a day or two early in his own small boat to seed the waters that were the subject of his most recent prediction.

Later, on his major predictions, the foretelling of which seemed impossible even to the previously initiated, he wagered much larger amounts.

One time, his thumb and forefinger on his forehead, his legs wavering slightly on the deck of their small fishing boat, he predicted a great gathering. “When this very vessel carries us around a point of land into a particular cove, there we will witness a vast meeting.”

He squeezed his temples, as if massaging the message. “There will be dozens—no, thousands of birds! Royalty from both land and sea. There will be albatrosses and the jester seagulls. They will meet with turkey buzzards and ravens and grackles. And they will gather, just as if they were called to a meeting and— No, wait! No, they have been called for a meeting... with the master of the cove... they will all meet with the ghost of the ancient king of men, the Mayan king called Pacial.”

To his credit, José didn’t even peek to see whether his dramatic rendition or the mispronunciation of King Pacal’s name was having an effect.

After a long moment, he sighed and sagged.

As two men caught him to keep him from falling to the deck, José leaned against the cabin. He looked at the men as if he’d just regained his normal vision. “Thank you, my friends. This will be a gathering unlike any seen before.”

He spread his arms dramatically and arched his eyebrows. “Of course, I am only a poor fisherman. What could I possibly know? Still, I believe in my vision enough to offer it for wager.” He turned in a circle, making eye contact with each man. “My friends, my salary is second only to the capitan’s, yet I will wager a month of my salary against a month of yours. Eh? What do you say?”

Toward the stern, Carlos and Pedro discussed the wager.

Pedro grinned. “It is a month’s wages, Carlos! And José makes a much larger paycheck than we do. What do you think, my friend? Let’s go halves and let him think the wager is coming from one man.”

Carlos was already shaking his head. “No no, mi amigo. My Maria does not like it when I wager. She has become more fond of eating since she has taken pregnant again.”

Pedro’s eyes grew wide. “But this is a sure thing, my friend! I am telling you, Carlos, there is no possible way José could know such a thing.” He pointed past the bow of the boat. “Look there at the point. “It is still over a mile away. We have all been on this boat together for the past four days, and before that José was in town with us the whole time. And have you seen any birds moving in that direction? I’m telling you, my friend, this one he cannot possibly win!”

But Carlos shook his head. “No, not for me. You wager with him if you want to, Pedro. It is your money. But the man never seems to lose, especially on the larger wagers.” He looked at José with something akin to reverence. “I think he is blessed. Perhaps even a prophet.”

Pedro clasped his hands at his chin and leaned forward, his voice quiet. “But he even mispronounced the name of King Pacal. Never has there been a king named Pacial in this land.”

Carlos grinned and gestured toward José. “Then go ahead, amigo! ¡Está bién! Go for it! As for me, I am going to double my money by folding it once and putting it back in my pocket. Besides, if I wagered and lost, Maria would take the rolling pin of her venerated mother, may she rest in peace—” and he quickly crossed himself, “to the side of my poor bony head.”

Most of the men were old hands and knew José’s uncanny ability as a prophet, but they also knew he had not sailed this stretch of ocean for months.

What they did not know was that José had gotten word of a macabre event, a massacre of animals and fish that had left dead flesh strewn across the two kilometers of beach at the head of the bay. Of the seven-man crew, four, including the captain, took up the wager.

Sure enough, when they rounded the point, the beach was covered with more buzzards and albatrosses and seagulls and crows and ravens and grackles than even José had expected. The flock stretched from the edge of the sea well up into the jungle.

José made a considerable amount of money, but to show he was truly their friend and not without mercy, he returned three days’ pay to each man.

* * *

Back in port a few nights later, only a few days before his twenty-second birthday, two men crept into his room just after midnight.

The first missed his mark, viciously stabbing the pillow José had pulled up next to himself for warmth, and the second missed as well, but only narrowly, opening a three-inch gash along the bottom of José’s right jaw as he sprang from the bed.

José hacked halfway through that man’s neck with his machete, then raced to the open window through which the other intruder had fled before his partner’s body had even hit the floor. He pinched his wound closed as best he could with a thumb and forefinger and watched the man disappear around the corner down the street. A cold cruelty took up residence in José’s dark eyes and remained from that day forward.

Back in his room, José picked up the dead man—Pedro Aliancado, he noted with disgust—and rolled him into the bed, then pulled the covers up to his chin. He wiped his machete clean on the dark thin cotton bedspread, then slipped it into its sheath and fastened it to his belt with a leather thong.

He had saved his earnings from his prophecies and his salary for almost ten years. He rolled up those earnings, his backpack, and his few belongings in his old canvas slicker, then slipped out of the room through the same broken window. He headed south along the coast.

As long as it was dark, he moved along the beach. When daylight came, he felt compelled to move into the jungle.

The first morning he took a small round mirror from his pocket and, using some hilo de agave and a sailmaker’s needle, he stitched up the gaping wound on the side of his face. He slept much of that day and night and the next day. The following night he continued south along the beach.

On the morning of the third day he moved into the jungle, as was his habit.

After a few hours he encountered a stream and felt an urge to follow it up the mountain. At its source, he discovered a natural pool and a very old, very small stone house. It was high above the sea in the jungle. Nobody could see him or the stone house from below, but from a position on top of the stone house he could see the whole world.

He decided to lay up for awhile to heal. The next morning he took the mirror from his pocket again and regarded his once-handsome, now terribly marred face.

His eyelids narrowed to slits, and he hurled the mirror into the small back room where it shattered against the wall. He would never look into another mirror.

He might have stayed there forever, hunting in the local woods for food and with a good spring nearby.

But despite the hatred lingering in his heart and the oath that had risen from his anger—that never again would he live among treacherous humans—he was a young man, and nature won out.

A couple of months after he had arrived at the stone house, he became too lonely for the voices of humans and too hungry for female companionship.

Back from exploring the mountain one early afternoon, he looked around and knew it was time to leave. He rolled his few belongings into his pack, slung it over one shoulder and made his way down the mountain and into Agua Rocosa.

* * *

Eufemia and her cousin, who had celebrated a quinceañera together two short weeks earlier, were kneeling over some rocks at the river washing out a few clothes when José first noticed Eufemia.

He looked about carefully, saw no others, then called to them from a distance so as not to startle them. “It is a beautiful day, yes? You know, they make machines now for washing clothes.”

Eufemia raised up slightly and looked to her right, over her cousin’s back. She sized up the short, slender man and shrugged before bending to the wash again. “It is a good day. And what would a stranger whose wit is obviously broader than his intelligence be looking for on such a day as this?”

He approached, grinning, his palms turned out in front of his chest. “I mean no harm, señorita. Only perhaps some light conversation. It has been a very long time since I have—”

She raised up again, then stood and turned to face him. “I am sure, señor, that it is of no consequence to me how long it has been since you have done whatever you have done.” Her black eyes flashed, her intense gaze lingering for a moment on his face before moving down his body.

She glanced back at her cousin. “Rosa, take the wash up to the house. I will be along in a while.”

“Sí, mi prima. And you will be all right?”

“I will be fine.” She looked at José. “The young man wishes only light conversation with me. No doubt in private.” She glanced at José. “¿No es verdad, señor? Is that not true?”  

José was taken aback. “I— Señorita, it was not my intention to interrupt—”

She shifted her weight and put one hand on her hip. Her eyes flashed again. “Do you really believe your presence here is important enough to interrupt anything? Do you suppose for even the briefest moment—” and she snapped her fingers sharply, “that an obvious vagabond such as yourself can wander away from some fishing village as if lost, come stumbling along this little river as if his muscles have lost all motor skills, and simply impose his will on a poor young woman who is trying to wash her laundry?”

José frowned. “Señorita, I—”

“Do you mean to imply, señor, that you are somehow of greater significance than a few woven cotton shirts? Well, you are not!”

José took a step back and raised his hands. “No no no. Señorita, I did not mean—”

“You have interrupted nothing! I sent my cousin home because it was time!” She took one step toward him, then raked him again with her gaze, head to boots and back to his face.

When she reached up with her left hand, he flinched but for some reason held his ground.

She lightly, gently traced the recently healed scar along his jawline. “Conversation, eh? And only light conversation at that? And what advantage would you hope to gain as a result, fisherman?” She took another step, squaring her body before him.

José took another step back, confusion washing over his face. “What? I... I do not look to gain any advantage. What sort of advantage do you think I want?”

Her eyes twinkled. “I am sure you could think of many, a vagabond lagabout such as you who goes about sneaking up on young women who are washing their papa’s shirts.”

“What? No, I—” He stopped, took another step back and bowed slightly. “My apologies, señorita. Perhaps I should just—”

“No! I mean... please do not go. You—you are where you are supposed to be.” She stepped forward and took his hand, then turned away as if to lead him. “Please, come with me.”

“But where—”

Still looking away, she shook her head. “Does it matter?”

His hand in hers, she led him across the river road, then a short distance into the jungle. In a small clearing, she turned and took both his hands in hers. “All right, we are here. Kiss me.” She closed her eyes, stood on her tiptoes, and puckered.

José’s eyes grew wide. “What? B-but I don’t want—I mean, yes, I would like very much to— But señorita, that was not my—”

She opened her eyes and cocked her head at him. “What is your name?”

“I— José. But—”

“Well José, are you a fool or are you only shy?” She backed herself against a sloping cottonwood tree, grabbed his shirt with both hands, pulled him down against her and kissed him. Her lips moved on his as he could only have imagined, her tongue exploring his mouth.

When she finally released him, he could barely breathe. The women with whom he had shared company in the past and from whom he had taken comfort were nothing like this one.

He stumbled backward, looking at her curiously. “I— Señorita, I do not know what to—”

Her eyes flashed mischievously. “Mmm... As I thought, you are only shy. Good. I like you, fisherman.

“My name is Eufemia. I will be your wife and you, José, will be my husband and the father of my children. We have much to discuss. Meet me at this same tree tomorrow when the sun is straight up in the sky. Do not be late.” With that, she pivoted off the sloping trunk of the tree and ran back through the jungle toward the river.

How did she know I was a fisherman?

Usually sure footed, he found he had trouble walking. He stumbled over roots twice on his way back to the river.

When he stepped out of the jungle, the girl was nowhere in sight. He looked at the ground and shook his head. “Ella es muy loco. Crazy, crazy girl. I think I will not meet her here tomorrow. Or anywhere else at any other time.”

* * *

Once she had ducked out of the jungle, Eufemia raced along the river road, across a small bridge and up the narrow path that led to her parents’ house.

She ran until she reached the back porch, then stopped and calmed her breathing for a moment. Finally she opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. “Hola, Mama,” she said, a smile plastered across her face. “I have found the man I will marry. The man with whom I will break the curse.”

Her mother stood at the counter in a dark grey dress, a white apron printed with vertical, light blue stripes and tiny red roses tied around her waist. She was rolling out tortillas for the evening meal.

She peered over her glasses at her daughter as she continued to work the rolling pin. “Is that right?” She dropped a tortilla into the skillet and began rolling out another ball of dough. “And where did you find this perfect man while you were supposed to be learning how your ancestors lived?”

“He walked right up to me out of nowhere. I am sure he was directed to me, although he seemed not to be aware of it.” She grinned. “He was a smooth talker, Mama. He was even kind enough to inform me that there are machines now for washing clothes. Then he wished me a good day and said he would like some light conversation.”

“And did he get the conversation he was hoping for?”

Eufemia giggled. “I kissed him on the mouth.”

Her mother stopped working momentarily, but only glanced at her daughter before returning her attention to the task at hand. She shook her head. “¡Eufemia! ¿Porque? Why would you do such a thing? Did anyone—”

“Nobody saw, Mama. I took him into the bushes first.” She giggled.

Her back still turned as she worked, her mother shook her head. “No matter. If someone saw you going into the jungle with a strange boy, it will be all over town by morning.”

“It is all right, Mama. It was only a kiss, and it was with the man I am going to marry. I have decided.”

“When will I meet this boy? Will he come to the house?”

“He is a man, Mama. A fisherman from the hook scars on his hands. But he is here by himself. He is not from any of the boats that dock here, so he has made his fortune. Tomorrow at noon we will meet again at our special tree. But of course I will bring him to the house in a few days.”

“Your papá would not be pleased. This is happening too quickly. He would say you are too young.”

A cloud passed over Eufemia’s eyes. She glanced at her mother’s back. “Perhaps he would not be pleased, Mama, if he were still with us, but he is not. Where he is now, he can see into my spirit and he can see into José’s spirit. Papá will be fine with it.”

As her mother turned around, Eufemia shrugged. “Mama, this is something I must do. José and I will be married. I have never felt so strongly about anything. And a great child—a great man—will come from our union.”

* * *

At first José walked along the river toward the sea, thinking of the quay there and certain he was due back on his boat.

Then he remembered where he was, that the life of a fisherman was behind him. He walked back up the river the way he had come. When he passed the rocks where he had first seen the girls, he glanced at the formation and smiled for a moment.

Then he jerked harshness back into his visage and moved along. A moment later he passed the place where Eufemia had tugged him into the brush and he smiled again. He thought of her soft, firm hands, the fire in her smoldering grey eyes and the taste of her lips, and a corner his heart went soft.

He shook his head. “No!” Then he looked about. More quietly, he muttered, “No, I will not see her tomorrow. Ella es loco.”

When he happened upon the major cross street that ran north and south through the town, he stood for a long moment looking in both directions.

Very little distinguished itself to the south: there was a church a few blocks away, a small gas station and bait shop a few blocks farther down, and then mostly houses.

Just across the street and to his left the road was lined with shops where one might purchase clothing, leather goods, and musical instruments. There also was a grocery store and an ice house.

A few blocks farther to the north he could just make out the word CANTINA in sun-faded letters on the side of a large, very old adobe on the west side of the road.

Una cerveza. A beer would fill the bill perfectly. Enough thought of the foolish woman child.

He made his way to the cantina, pushed through the heavy wooden door and scanned the interior.

A couple in their late 30s or early 40s occupied a table to the left. Farther back, near the corner, a stately looking gentleman of about the same age or a little older had a table to himself.

He seems to reign over it. It is his regular table. A former military man.

Other than those three people and the bartender and his woman, both of whom were behind the bar until she flitted through a doorway into the back, nobody else was in the cantina.

He let the door swing closed and approached the bar. “Una cerveza, por favor, mi amigo. A beer, please.”

The bartender, in his early thirties, popped the caps off two bottles of Negra Modelo, set one in front of José, then took a long swig out of the other one. He held his beer bottle just so and nodded politely. “Juan-Carlos Salazár, proprietor, at your service, señor.”

José nodded and touched his beer bottle to that of the other man. “José Dominguez de Silva. To your health, señor.”

A couple hours later, when José began to feel comfortable with his surroundings, he motioned for Juan-Carlos. When the bartender approached, José asked, “Any fishing outfits looking for crewmen around here?”

Juan-Carlos shook his head. “There is only one small fleet, and the patrón has decided to move it farther south. Soon there will be no jobs on boats for anyone who chooses to remain here, only individual family boats.”

“What is the problem?”

“Oh, no problem that I know of. Only that old man Borges is getting long in the tooth and wants to be nearer his home in El Salvador.” Juan-Carlos shrugged. “Who can blame him? But he might even sell his fleet to the right buyer.”

José grinned. “What makes you think I might be interested?”

Juan-Carlos glanced at the man’s hands. “May I?”

José shrugged and lifted his hands.

Juan-Carlos took them, looked at the palms, then turned them over. “Despite your youth, you have fished for many years, but not for awhile. Not for a few months at least.” He released the José’s hands. “You have all the experience you need, and probably all the money you need as well, at least for a good while, so you left wherever you were. And you are traveling light.”

He pointed at José’s homemade pack. “In fact, that probably contains all of your belongings, so you probably left suddenly, though not necessarily ahead of trouble since you do not seem overly worried about anything. You have been here enjoying beers and conversation for a few hours, yet you have not looked over your shoulder when others have entered the cantina. Also, you only now asked about a job, and I think that was only to make conversation. Am I right so far?”

José grinned. “You are very observant, my friend. And?”

Juan-Carlos leaned on the bar. “Okay. You do not have a place to stay yet, but you are not worried about it. I think you are just trying to decide whether you like our little town or whether you will move on to some other place to start your new business, whatever it may be.”

He straightened, took the bar towel from his shoulder and wiped an imaginary spot on the bar. “I think you will own a fleet of boats. You do not want to fish yourself anymore, at least not all the time, but it is in your blood.”

José raised his beer to toast him again. “Everything you said is true, my friend, except that I have already decided to stay in Agua Rocosa. Any recommendations regarding accommodations?”

Juan-Carlos grinned. “If you need only a place to rest your head while you are deciding what is what, you could stay right here. I have a small room in the back. It used to be a storage room, but we do not use it for that anymore. I keep a small bed and a table in there.” He moved toward the end of the bar nearest the wall. “Here, come around and I will show you.”

The room was larger than José expected at about twelve by fifteen feet. A single bed was pushed against one wall, a small table beside it. A small chest of drawers stood on the other side of the bed, and a larger table and a few chairs sat farther back in the room. “Sold! How much?”

Juan-Carlos clapped him on the shoulder. “You stay awhile and let me know how you like it, my new friend. We will discuss money at another time.”

“Gracias.” José stowed his few belongings in the room, then rejoined Juan-Carlos out front. “Once I have a permanent place to live, this might be just the place for an office, eh? Say to run a fishing fleet?” He laughed.

Juan-Carlos nodded. “It might at that, my friend. It might at that.”

After another couple of beers, José got a good night’s rest on the small bed in the back room of the cantina.

The following morning he rose and met Juan-Carlos and his wife, Ofelia, at their house for a breakfast of chorizo and eggs. As they ate at a small table on the patio, he looked across at Ofelia. “This is very good, señora.”

Ofelia nodded, smiling slightly. “Gracias, señor.”

“Juan-Carlos, what do you know about a girl named Eufemia?”

Ofelia looked up sharply.

Juan-Carlos shrugged. “Not very much. She comes from a good family of honest fishermen. Why do you ask?”

José shrugged. “No reason, really. I met her and her cousin—Rosa, I think, was the cousin’s name—at the river above the quay yesterday.” He laughed. “They were washing some clothing on the rocks there.”

“Probably a school project of some kind. Do you know—”

Ofelia stood quickly, dropping her napkin onto her plate. “You must stay away from her!” She looked at her husband apologetically, then looked directly at José. “I mean, she—the girl—she believes herself cursed. She is the thirteenth child of a thirteenth child, her mother, who is also the thirteenth child of her grandmother, and so on. And they say it runs back for thirteen generations, including Eufemia’s.”

She paused to cross herself. “She is always taking crazy risks because she thinks she will not live very long. And she has an unhealthy affinity for ancient times. Whenever she gets an outside assignment from her teachers, she turns it into something about her ancestors. Well, the ancestors of the people here. The ancestors of the land. That is why you found her washing clothing on rocks. She—” Ofelia glanced at her husband.

Juan-Carlos’ eyes had grown dark, as they often did when she went on too long or said more than he thought she should have said.

She quickly averted her gaze back to José. “She just is not right, señor. You—I recommend you avoid this girl and spend your time on—” She caught a glimpse of his eyes and looked more deeply. Quietly, she said, “On other pursuits.” She looked into his eyes again.

There, she saw something she hadn’t seen before, something perhaps even José himself wasn’t aware of. She picked up her plate and her coffee cup. Her voice quiet with defeat, she said, “Of course, you must do what you must do. Where fate is involved, what cannot be remedied must be endured.”

When she had gone, José looked at Juan-Carlos, a question in his eyes.

Juan-Carlos, his coffee cup to his lips, met his gaze, then closed his eyes and slightly shook his head. He set the cup down without allowing it to clink on the saucer. “Truly, you must do what you must do, José. Nothing can override fate.”

José looked at him for a moment, nodded slightly, then grinned and pushed away from the table. “Well, there is no mandate at work here, my friend. But now I have to go talk with a man about a fleet. I will see you in the cantina later.” He turned and strode out of the garden.

From the doorway, Ofelia said, “Will he be all right?”

Watching as José passed through the gate and crossed the street, Juan-Carlos nodded. “He will do what he must. He is who he is. He has no choice.”

“Does he know of the prophecy? Does he know even about the man of mud?”

Juan-Carlos laughed sadly and shook his head. “No, I do not think so. But there is something.… I think he senses that he is a thirteenth child of a thirteenth child. I think he recognizes that his senses and emotions are heightened, sharpened, but I do not believe he is aware that he knows.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood, then gathered his plate and his cup and handed them to Ofelia. “He was an orphan, you know.” He shook his head again. “Anyway, plenty of time for all of that later. At least thirteen, fourteen years. I have to open the cantina.”

He bent to plant a kiss on her cheek, then turned and went through the same gate José had used.

* * *

Eufemia had counted down the generations in her family. She was not only the thirteenth child, a daughter, of a thirteenth child, also a daughter, but hers was the thirteenth time it had happened in a direct line from her great grandmother all those generations ago.

She thought of José, then picked up her brush and drew it through her long black hair. I do not know whether he knows, but he is about to fulfill his destiny.

Her mother came into her room and stood behind her. She took the brush from Eufemia and began brushing her daughter’s hair. Looking past Eufemia’s shoulder into their reflection in the mirror, she smiled. “Is he the one, Daughter? Do you love him?”

Eufemia’s gaze in the mirror met her mother’s. “He is the one, Mama. He is the thirteenth child, a son, of a thirteenth child, also a son, and his is the thirteenth generation in a line. I would bet my life on it.

“He and I—José and I—we will break this curse. We will have a child, Mama, a special child who will fulfill the prophecy and break the awful curse of this chain of thirteen. I predict it will be our very first child.” In the mirror, she smiled as her mother continued to brush her hair.

“I hope so, Mija. I hope he is the one, and I hope it happens as you believe it will.”

* * *

As he was fated to do, José met Eufemia at the cottonwood the next day. They talked from noon into the early evening, sharing all they knew of their families and their lives.

Not one to withhold important information, Eufemia explained that together they would break the curse that had long plagued both their families and bring a very important child into their village, one who would grow to be an important man.

When José agreed, meaning all such matters were settled, they spoke as well of things that were beyond their control, such as the tides of the sea and the phases of the moon and the rhythms of the wind. And bit by bit they fell in love.

The next night José met and impressed Eufemia’s mother, who introduced him to señor Borges, who agreed to sell him a small fleet of seven fishing boats. Most of the crewmen agreed to stay on, and the only noticeable difference in the business was that the fishermen received a substantial raise and the rest of the money went to a new owner whose office was the back room at the cantina.

A few weeks later, José and Eufemia were married in the beautiful, freshly whitewashed church near the center of town.

* * * * *

About the Author

Gervasio Arrancado was born in a small shack in Mexico and raised in the orphanage at Agua Idelfonso, several kilometers, give or take a few, from the fictional fishing village of Agua Rocosa. He is fortunate to have made the acquaintance of Augustus McCrae, Hub and Garth McCann, El Mariachi, Forest Gump, The Bride (Black Mamba), Agents J and K, and several other notables. To this day he lives at that place on the horizon where reality just folds into imagination.