Ricardo was struck by the pervasive emptiness of the shop, the subdued, even dim lighting. He was the only customer. He had been attracted by the subdued, even dim, lighting. He was the only customer. He had been attracted by the curious antique quality of the ares in the windows of the store, an anomaly in a neighborhood of modern day markets and bistros. He had entered on the off chance that he might find a gift, something unusual and meaningful, for his beloved Encarnacion. She, his fiance, always spoke in enchanted whispers about the wondrous vestiges of yesteryear, the trinkets, toys and finery of the days of the Cavalier, as well as his blandishments of love he would bring to his lady--under the sharp eyes, of course, of the everpresent Duena.
The Curio Emporium would have such items, he thought. He entered there guided as if by some unseen force to a large glass table positioned under an ornate silken lamp, with fringes at its border. He recalled his grandmother had such a lamp, in the long, long ago of his childhood.
The oval shape of the hand-mirror caught his eye. It was ringed by an intricately woven frame of fine, darkened metal, perhaps silver. It did not have the look of this century, or even the previous one. Perhaps baroque, he thought.
It lay nestled in the wide assortment of second-hand merchandise on the dusty table that included other feminine vanities of days gone by--a comb, carved out of ivory, a matching ivory backed brush and a kindred box of the kind in which ladies were wont to store the fallen strands of hair that clung to their combs after vigorous brushing.
He bent to examine the metal artistry that enclosed the mirror. It was indeed silver transmuted into dullness by long inattention. It was make a fine gift for his beloved Encarnacion.
As he bent over the table, he noticed that the mirror reflected nothing but emptiness, a bottomless void. He looked at the lamp above the table, which though dim, lit the table and its contents, but was not mirrored in the glass.
He thought it must be an illusion. He reached for the handle of the mirror, but he paused when he felt a sudden presence.
"It's not for sale!" The voice was harsh, unfriendly, even hostile. "The items on the table are not for sale!"
He turned and beheld a tall, aged woman, clad from head to toe in black. Her face was guarded by the shadows, yet he discerned skeletal gauntness. She said nothing more, turned and seemed to glide rather than walk to the rear of the shop, her feet hidden by the length of her funereal gown. She was gone.
He was embarrassed, as if he had committed a grievous wrong. In order to disguise his discomfiture, he pretended to be interested in other musty items in the shop, but departed after what seemed a decent interval.
Outside, it was sunlit. He took a deep breath and exhaled the dust of the shop, and pondered the experience.
The image of the toiletry items lingered in his mind, but especially the mirror. Was it the lighting? Was it his imagination? His skin tingled in fear and relief. The image of the wraith-like crone, dressed in stygian black severity of a long ago era, obsessed him. She and the mirror were related in some way, he was sure. It was not his imagination. The lamp above the table did not appear in the oval face of the hand mirror, nor did it reflect anything else.
A sudden terror overtook him. He turned with great apprehension so that the slanting sun was behind him and he looked down. "There it is, there it is! he shouted joyfully as he saw his elongated shadow before him on the sidewalk. "Dio Mio, Dio mio--Gracias a nuestro Senor en Cielo, nuestro Salvador!" My God, my God, thanks to our Savior in Heaven." His soul was unassailed, intact. He spat once with contempt at "el Diablo", the Evil one, for good measure.
Encarnacion listened to his tale. Perhaps it was his imagination, but she trembled at his account. He looked at her as she lifted her wide eyes to his, crossed herself and mouthed a silent prayer.
"Amor de mi vida," she said to him. "You must never go into that shop again. I thought she was dead, dead, long, long ago."
"Who was dead?" He laughed. "You cannot mean that emaciated specter in black, the proprietor, although she did look like death." He laughed again, but nervously this time.
"It is she," said Encarnacion. "La Condesa de Mariel. My grandmother knew her. They were classmates at the Convent of Misericordia, as children. My grandmother is dead twenty years and she was ninety when she died."
"What has an old shop owner to do with an antique mirror, a comb and a brush?. This is some old ladies tale."
Ricardo's tone was scoffing and it irritated Encarnacion.
"Old ladies tale? The story ran for months in the press. Two men died. They killed each other over the greatest beauty of her time, the Condesa de Mariel. She became known as the Donesa del'infierno, the Countess from Hell. And it was over the mirror, the comb and the brush.
"Your grandmother told you the story?"
"Not directly. The Condesa had confided regularly to her. My grandmother was like a confessor to her. The Condesa told things to her she could not tell a priest."
"And your grandmother told you?" I concluded.
"No," said Encarnacion. "I heard her confession as she received last rites. I won't tell you how or why I was hidden in my grandmother's room when she died. That is a story for another time, other ears, many years hence. Listen, these are the words my grandmother heard from the Condesa.
"There can be no passion in Heaven or Hell such as my lover brought me. I hid nothing. If my husband, the Count, knew, he gave no sign. I would not have cared if he did know. Each time my lover left me, the Count's presence in the same room, in the same house, became intolerable. I rejoiced when Esteban, my adored, brought me the toiletries. Each time I brushed my hair and held his mirror I beheld the image of his handsome face, and I could then retire into dreams of passion in my sleep. I was like a a 'novia' a fiance with her engagement ring. His gift became personified; they became him. I needed to show them to the other ladies of our coterie, like an ingenue would display her diamond of commitment, though there was certainly no ingenue among us. And so I did. It was like a knife in my heart when it happened.
The Condesa de Monte Placido smiled above the rim of her teacup and said, 'I thought they were familiar. Your Caballero took them from me in a rage when I threw them from my bedroom just a few weeks ago. He said, waste not, want not.' There was an angry merriment in her laugh.
The laughter of the other ladies drove the knife deeper into my bosom. It was an affront to my honor, to the depths of my soul. I resolved at that moment that my lover would die.
It was a simple enough task. I made my affair known to everyone. It was something my husband's honor could not ignore. They were both good shots. They killed each other in a duel.
At that moment, I died also. Night after night I held the glass aloft and searched for my beloved's face. The mirror reflected nothing, nothing animate or inanimate. It is La Maldicion di Dio, the Curse of God. I cast no shadow when I walk in the sun. I have lost my soul."
Ricardo held Encarnacion close. She stared as if in a trance. He wondered why her grandmother had felt the need to tell this story to a priest when she died. But the answer came as Encarnacion continued with her grandmother's last words. "Now I can die in peace. I could never enter heaven with the Condesa's secret on my heart. It was a mortal sin I held and committed and bore all the interminable years of my life. I die now in peace."
Ricardo felt his fiance go limp. He could feel the pounding of her heart against his chest. The recitation revived his original fears.
No. Surely it was the lighting in the shop. If the mysterious old woman had not stopped him from retrieving the mirror, he would have seen that it was only a glass. Yes.. He would have seen his face, had he had the chance to look.
Still he would not forget to go to Mass on Sunday. In fact, there was still time for a long delayed visit to the confessional. It is another mortal sin to take the Host at Mass without having confessed. The soul is a very fragile instrument.
"
No comments:
Post a Comment