EL LOCO [Joaquin Mondragon]

4 - El fuego

All the inhabitants of the Posada Mansion were tired and drowsy yet, as far as I could tell, Maria was the only one asleep. The stomach-flipping scent of roasted chicken and fried corn tortillas wafted from somewhere in the feast hall and I let myself wander towards the scent, knowing full well that enchiladas and tamales would be found. I was not disappointed - surrounded by dozens of empty bottles of margarita mixes and empty beer mugs, was a still steaming plate of food. The feast hall had long been cleared, however, I still remained silent as I scooped up an enchilada and took a bite. An explosion of flavour overwhelmed me and for an instant my tastebuds were enraptured by the heady taste of succulent meat, a collision of fresh vegetables and, to top it all off, a spicy zing of the finest Mexican chillis that set my mouth aflame. There was nothing quite like Mexican food - which made the bland, watery soup I had tasted on the train all the more tasteless.

As I walked, I nibbled on the edges of my spicy enchilada and I hummed to myself, a bit unnerved by the consuming silence. I could not remember a time when the house was this quiet, but then again, I never snuck out of the house to meet a mystery stranger at midnight.

 A mystery stranger that had failed to meet me. 

My room was dark and quiet, a mirror of the entirety of the house. I fought my way through the door — a difficult task when you were cradling a half-eaten enchilada that threatened to spill sauce on the floor — and finished up my meal by licking my fingers clean of the sauce. My lips were stinging with the pleasant zinging aftertaste of chilli and I ran my tongue across it to cleanse it. Making a satisfied noise and wondering if I would skip downstairs to sneak another one, I stood in front of my mirror and started to undress. I hardly recognised myself in the mirror as I slowly ran my fingers across the floral embroidery on the ankle-length navy skirt. Reaching behind me blindly, I groped along my spine for the zipper. Finding the jagged piece, I pulled down the zipper and stepped out of my dress. I took a moment to breathe deeply as I allowed the cool air to caress my body, now only concealed in a thin, cotton slip in a very bright shade of white. I tossed the dress unceremoniously into my open suitcase and sat on the edge of my bed, hearing a complacent creak. I felt completely relaxed as I rummaged through the drawers of my wonky side table and took out my hairbrush. I pulled it gently through my hair, tugging at the knots made by the bitter wind.

The undertaking quickly grew boring and tiresome, and I found myself humming along to not just a random beat, but a proper song. A lullaby. I recognised its tender, delicate rhythm and it made my heart swell to hear it again. It was a song Mama had sung to Maria and I when we were still children.

"Ay, ay, ay, ay.

Canta y no llores,

porque cantando se alegran,

cielito lindo,

los corazones."

The lullaby was gentle and mild. I tried tirelessly to sing it the way Mama did; her voice calming and soothing for a few lines as her voice babbled like a brooke over river rocks, before allowing my song to hit a higher cresendo as if it was a waterfall spurting over a valley.

"Siempre que te enamores celito lindo mira primero," A smile touched my lips as I rememebered the sound of my mother's voice, "donde pones los ojos cielito lindo no llores luego."

The subtle burn in my throat reminded me of my pleasantly abused vocal cords as I forced them high, low and back again in less than a moment's notice. I even made sure to deepen my voice where my father once intercepted Mama's lovely, whirling song that felt as free as the wind. A frown graced my lips as I thought of how happy he was once - and how he behaved now.

Breathing in deeply, allowing my lungs to expand and contract through the musical notes, I readied myself for the chorus by keeping time with a whispered hum. As I continued to comb through my dark hair, which smelled strangely of violets, I found myself thinking of Manolo Sanchez. He was a perfect blend of masculinity - his jaw was strong and flowed outwards into hollowed cheeks and a proud, ennobling chin. The subtle curve to his sparkling eyes beneath his thick eyebrows made me melt as I remembered the way he looked at me - no man had ever gazed at me so searchingly, as if he had finally found what he was looking for. I sighed happily, feeling a giddiness squirming inside of me, and stood to return my hairbrush to my bedside when a movement in my peripheral vision made me pause.

The terror froze me to my spot. I was not alone.

"Una flecha en el aire,

cielito lindo,

lanzó Cupido,

y como fue jugando,

cielito lindo,

yo fui el herido."

A stranger's voice murmured from the darkness of the room, where my assailant awaited in the shadows. Watching my every move, hearing my every noise. I was instantly grateful to Maria, whom had set about twelve scented candles in the room alight - giving off both a blushing illuminescence from the candles and a lingering taste of vanilla into the air.

A tentative step propelled me into the stranger's direction.

Another step revealed, through the dull candle-glow, his features.

"Dios mío!" I sputtered, "It's you!"