Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 03

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Gaucho
Gaucho
31 Followers

When Erica became angry and threatened to go public, she received a visitor, a tall man who spoke flawless English and never removed his sunglasses. In quiet and ominous tones, he gave her a choice: She could leave the country or she would be arrested and indicted as an accessory to the murder of her companion. If she left quietly, there would be little or no mention of her at the trial, thus sparing her and the man's family a great deal of embarrassment.

Emotionally and physically drained, Erica returned to the US. Turning to her own government for help, she was dismayed to learn that the State Department considered the matter to be an internal affair of the country of Mexico and that, with her now safely back home, there was nor reason for them to take action. Because they could not be responsible for her safety, she was advised not to return to Mexico.

She wandered at loose ends for several weeks. She spoke to everyone she could think of about the situation but received no help. Her health declined further, but Erica didn't care. There had to be something she could do. On the day that Enrique stood in front of a judge to hear his fate, she sat, despondent and alone, in a small roadside café near the outskirts of Tucson. After a short time, a man approached her table and asked if he could join her. She hardly looked at him. Unperturbed, he sat down across from her and began to talk.

He spoke quietly to her, his voice even and measured, his tone soothing. As the sound of his voice rolled over her like a quiet waterfall, she felt something inside of her give, and she began to cry. In moments, she was sobbing; coughing up great, wracking heaves of anguish that had been frozen inside of her. When it was over she felt more at ease than she had in months and she was suddenly ravenous.

Over a wolfed-down lunch, Erica told him everything. Not just about Enrique but all the things that had happened in her life to that point. She felt oddly comfortable telling him about the professor and the other men that she'd been with, and he listened with no hint of judgment or reproach in his eyes. At last she realized that her plate was empty and that she'd been talking for hours. She tried to apologize but he stopped her.

He told her he understood. He told her that he'd known from the moment he saw her that she was in trouble and needed help. He told her he knew these things because he'd been in trouble once himself, and he had survived it only because someone had been kind enough to reach out to him at a desperate moment in his life. He stood up and held out his hand. Let me help you, he said. Let me give you what you need.

She hesitated, but for once in her life she seemed out of options. And there was something about this man, the way he spoke and the way he listened to her. There was calmness in his manner, a tranquil power that soothed her and drew her to him. She felt she could trust him. She took his hand, with no inkling that she was making the worst mistake of her life. On that day, two countries and several hundred miles apart, Erica and Enrique entered Hell together.

Erica angrily wiped her tears on the sleeve of her robe. There was only one thing to do, now. She had to go see Enrique. She had to talk to him, to tell him what had happened, why he'd been left there to rot all alone in that prison. She knew there could be no forgiveness. Not now. Not after so long a time. But at least he'd know the truth. And maybe that would be a start.

She picked up the loose pages of his letter and put them in order. She started to put them back into the envelope and then stopped. On the back of the last page, almost hidden down near the dark smudges, she saw some more writing. The words were scrawled, as if they had been written in haste, but it was definitely Enrique's handwriting. And these words, like her name on the envelope, had been written in pen. She separated the last page from the others and began to read.

My darling,

It appears now that Padre Ramirez was more right about this letter than he knew. Not only has writing it made me feel much better – it has set me free! I am not sure if this is exactly what the good Padre intended but one should always be careful what one wishes for, no? Intended or no, he has given me hope for the future, a hope that I had thought lost to me forever. It is a debt that I can never repay.

As for us, querida, I now know that someday we will meet again. I do not know where or when, or what the outcome of that meeting will be. But I know it will happen. For now, it is enough for me to know that you have read these words. The passage of time has done nothing to diminish the power of your flame, Erica. But do not forget the smoke. When the time is right, when you are ready for me, remember to turn to the shadows. I will be there, waiting for you.

The page fluttered from her grasp and landed lightly on the table. She stared at it absently, her eyes drawn once more to the smudges on the paper. Her mind whirled, but it was like running in quicksand. What was it about the smu—and then she noticed the envelope. The envelope she'd opened with her fingernail, cutting herself in the process. The envelope decorated with a single drop of her blood, a now almost dry drop of blood that looked remarkably like…well, like a smudge.

Her hand went to her mouth as she remembered Enrique's words:

I have always been good with a knife, Erica…if I had meant to kill him, would I have really bled him like a stuck pig?

Her mind went back to the quiet knock on her door, a knock so soft she almost hadn't heard it. And the envelope, stuck in her door for her to find. An envelope sealed in wax with no postage on it. A part of her wanted to scream, to run through the villa, checking the locks and the windows. But she knew it would make no difference. And for now, it didn't matter. He'd made his intentions clear enough.

Her gaze fell upon the nearby cormorants, huddled together on the cliff that overlooked the green waters of the Mediterranean. One of them stared back at her, cold-eyed and unblinking, disdainful of her petty problems. For a few moments, neither of them moved and the setting might have been a picture or a still-life painting.

I am no longer the same man…

No, she thought. How could you be? But I am no longer the same woman, either. Hell comes in many forms and the Devil wears many guises. I survived my trip through the wasteland and now it appears that you are free as well, at least for the time being. The irony is that we both endured that awful journey by clinging to the same thing: Thoughts of each other.

The sea bird squawked suddenly and flapped its wings. This startled the other birds and all of them took flight, soaring upward into the piercing blue sky. The scent of her cherished Damask roses was gone now, dissipated by the swelter of the mid-day sun. Tomorrow in the cool of the morning the fragrance would return, investing her villa with its old world essence. The most precious things in life always seemed to bloom for such a short time, Erica thought. And yet, despite their brief and brilliant life, you could always count on them to thrive and return to bloom again, sometimes from the most unlikely of places.

For the first time in several hours, Erica smiled. Yes, she thought. It's time. Come to me, my love. I'm ready when you are.

FIN

Gaucho
Gaucho
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AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
incredible this should be a movie!

EXCELLENT!

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