intense fervor, this devotional passion, this locura almost.” The fan closed, pointed upward, descended again, reopened, went on fluttering. “I don’t like it. It isn’t good at your age. It isn’t natural. It is not that your papa passed from us yesterday. It is five years ago, now, may he rest in peace. You were thirteen then. You loved him, you were desolated. Bueno . Then it passed, as it should with the young. You were like other girls your age, you enjoyed the cine on a Sunday afternoon, having an helado in a sweetshop now and then, those things. Now all at once this frenzy of tragic grief descends on you, excluding every other interest. It is almost feverish, I have seen you brooding by the hour. You cannot go often enough, nor remain long enough, at All Saints Cemetery. You are unable to eat or sleep, unable to think of anything but the departed. It’s morbid, it’s melancholy.”
The fan never stopped a moment. The monologue ran on, with a sort of velvety firmness that didn’t raise its voice, threaten, command. That just stated facts. “It is to stop now. No more of these visits to a burial ground. They’re not normal. I don’t understand them. At your age one shouldn’t think of the other world so constantly.”
The girl gave her a look of almost tearful supplication. “Just one more time, madrecita . Just today, and then I won’t go any more—if you say so.”
“Very well, one more time. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will feel better, I will take you myself, if you insist on going.”
The girl looked harassed, almost terrified at the alternative. “But today’s his saint day! Just this once. Look, I’m all ready to leave. It’s after halfpast four already. I can be there and back before you know it. Just this once more—”
The Senora Viuda wagged her head darkly, in accompaniment to her fanning. “Always there is one time too many, daughter of my blood. Who knows, this may be it? Don’t go; listen to your mother. I had a dream I didn’t like when I was napping just now.”
The girl showed a momentary interest. “About me? What was it about?”
“Only that I could hear your voice calling to me from some dark place, and I could not reach you.”
The girl chuckled indulgently. “Is that all? In school the sisters used to tell us we mustn’t believe in anything like that.”
The Senora Viuda, who was anything but irreligious, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Are the sisters mothers?”
She fanned awhile longer, still withholding consent. “Stay here,” she urged. “Here, within the walls of your home, where you should be. Read, sew at something, sit by the bars of the window, looking out, dreaming the dreams a young girl does. Or go into the patio at the back, bask there in the late sun, looking at yourself in the water, doing your hair some foolish new way. What is the worst that can happen to you here? Only that time may drag a little. Better that time should pass too slowly than too quick. Tomorrow we will go Out, buy you something at one of the stores, have a refresco , take in the crowd at the tables around us—”
She sighed. She could see it was no use, even before the answer came. “Go then, if you must,” she gave in grudgingly. “But today is the last time.” Then as the girl half started up from her chair in unleashed alacrity, a gesture of the fan stopped her short. “And I want one thing understood. You are not to go there accompanied by Rosita any more.”
The girl looked stricken. “But I can’t go by myself! Who else is—?”
“I don’t trust her. She’s giddy and only a few months older than yourself, no fit companion! I should have put a stop to it long ago. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking of until now. It will be old Marta who will take you, if you go at all.”
A look of unadulterated horror passed over the girl’s face at this. Before she could answer, a telephone had pealed distantly, in some remote
The fan never stopped a moment. The monologue ran on, with a sort of velvety firmness that didn’t raise its voice, threaten, command. That just stated facts. “It is to stop now. No more of these visits to a burial ground. They’re not normal. I don’t understand them. At your age one shouldn’t think of the other world so constantly.”
The girl gave her a look of almost tearful supplication. “Just one more time, madrecita . Just today, and then I won’t go any more—if you say so.”
“Very well, one more time. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will feel better, I will take you myself, if you insist on going.”
The girl looked harassed, almost terrified at the alternative. “But today’s his saint day! Just this once. Look, I’m all ready to leave. It’s after halfpast four already. I can be there and back before you know it. Just this once more—”
The Senora Viuda wagged her head darkly, in accompaniment to her fanning. “Always there is one time too many, daughter of my blood. Who knows, this may be it? Don’t go; listen to your mother. I had a dream I didn’t like when I was napping just now.”
The girl showed a momentary interest. “About me? What was it about?”
“Only that I could hear your voice calling to me from some dark place, and I could not reach you.”
The girl chuckled indulgently. “Is that all? In school the sisters used to tell us we mustn’t believe in anything like that.”
The Senora Viuda, who was anything but irreligious, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Are the sisters mothers?”
She fanned awhile longer, still withholding consent. “Stay here,” she urged. “Here, within the walls of your home, where you should be. Read, sew at something, sit by the bars of the window, looking out, dreaming the dreams a young girl does. Or go into the patio at the back, bask there in the late sun, looking at yourself in the water, doing your hair some foolish new way. What is the worst that can happen to you here? Only that time may drag a little. Better that time should pass too slowly than too quick. Tomorrow we will go Out, buy you something at one of the stores, have a refresco , take in the crowd at the tables around us—”
She sighed. She could see it was no use, even before the answer came. “Go then, if you must,” she gave in grudgingly. “But today is the last time.” Then as the girl half started up from her chair in unleashed alacrity, a gesture of the fan stopped her short. “And I want one thing understood. You are not to go there accompanied by Rosita any more.”
The girl looked stricken. “But I can’t go by myself! Who else is—?”
“I don’t trust her. She’s giddy and only a few months older than yourself, no fit companion! I should have put a stop to it long ago. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking of until now. It will be old Marta who will take you, if you go at all.”
A look of unadulterated horror passed over the girl’s face at this. Before she could answer, a telephone had pealed distantly, in some remote
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