Music, Literature and Cards

Once he returned to his room, Diego sent Bernardo down through their secret passage to see to Tornado, as he had told himself he would.  Then, laying his jacket over the back of a chair, he sat down on the edge of his bed and reached for the book he had been reading.  Suddenly, he wondered if perhaps, somewhere around here, he had a copy of the works of Juana Inés de la Cruz, a colonial poet whose admirers, two centuries earlier, had nicknamed her "the Tenth Muse."  She was another of those beautiful women with too much education.  At age nineteen, she had left court to become a nun, devoting her life to the study of theology, history, literature, music and science.  Oreana would probably know her poetry, he thought.  Or if she didn’t, she should.

When he couldn’t find the book in his room, he decided to slip downstairs and look in the library.  But halfway down the stairs, the sound of someone softly plucking the strings of a guitar made him stop mid stride.  It wasn’t a song, exactly.  More like a series of finger exercises.  But he knew it had to be her, even before he noticed her sitting across the courtyard in the shade of the big tree.  She seemed nearly invisible in the soft swaying patches of light.  If not for the sound, he wouldn’t have seen her at all.  And now, inexplicably, though he had waited all day for this chance to talk to her alone, he felt uneasy.  When she saw him, she simply looked up with a smile and handed him the instrument.  "There, it should sound better now.  It was a little out of tune."

"Gracias.  I take it that you finally managed to evade poor Teresa?"

"She is quite devoted to protecting my virtue."

"Understandable."  He smiled and stepped to one side, then placed a foot next to where she sat on the stone retaining wall that circled the tree’s base, resting the waist of the guitar lightly on his thigh.  Finally, fingering its neck, he strummed it softly.  To his surprise, it did sound better.  "Much better," he said.  "What did you do to it?"

"Just tuned it," she shrugged.

Diego considered this response.  Clearly he was talking to the same woman Zorro had met the night before, one who could be enticingly cryptic.  "I myself have managed to tune it once or twice," he said pointedly, trying not to look too amused.  She shrugged again, then laced her fingers together, studying them closely.

"I have perfect pitch," she said.

Plucking the individual notes of an E minor chord, he raised his eyebrows.  "Someone with perfect pitch can hear a bird’s song and tell the exact pitch of the notes the bird is singing, no?"

She nodded.  "When a guitar is perfectly tuned, this string will vibrate precisely twice as fast as this one."  As she spoke she placed her fingers shyly over his without quite touching them, then added, "It is all quite mathematical.  What you hear is an intricate pattern of overtones and sympathetic resonances—notes that are not even being played.  But of course, it will not last."

"The weather."

"Sí.  The least little changes in temperature will throw it off.  Even playing it."

"Unfortunate."

"Carpe deim," she nodded at the guitar with a shy grin, "play it now."

"Not just Greek but Latin too," he chided her.

Now she was trying hard, again, to stifle the laughter that shook her shoulders.

"Do you tune pianos as well?" he added, just to see if he could make the task more difficult.

"No, I do not have the proper tools," she giggled.

"But perhaps you would play?"

"I will if you sing, she said," catching her breath.  "Your voice is quite pleasant.  It has a very distinctive sound, light, yet surprisingly resonant.  It—reminds me of someone. . . ."  Suddenly she glanced up at him, and for a moment her eyes narrowed.  He felt a shiver of apprehension as he realized what she must be thinking.  He didn’t know why it had never before occurred to him that someone with a keen ear might be able to recognize him just by the sound of his voice, but there it was.

"Gracias," he said, not daring to look away or let his own smile fade.  "I would be honored, even by flattery, from one with skills such as yours."

"It is not flattery," she said.  "Obviously you do have some skills of your own."

"Perhaps we should speak of cards?"  His own eyes narrowed as he set the guitar aside.

"You have done much reading, haven’t you."

He shrugged.  "I spent a few years in school outside Madrid."

"Universidad Complutense.  Oh, but you are far too modest.  This is the finest school in all of Spain.  Did you take a degree, then?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He shook his head.  This conversation itself didn’t seem to want to quit resonating with overtones.  Did she know how closely his return from Spain had coincided with Zorro’s first appearance in Los Angeles?  And what possible excuse would she believe for his having quit school?  That he didn’t place that much value on his education?  That he had found Madrid a bore?  "My father," he said finally.  "A few years ago there was trouble.  He was here all alone."

"Oh, sí," she nodded.  "Well, that is understandable.  He is a widower.  And such a dear man.  You are all he has left of your mother, no?  He must love you very much.  I’m sure he would be utterly destroyed if anything were to happen to you."

There it was, finally.  Diego decided to take the initiative again.  "And now you are about to tell me that you think something might happen to me," he said.  "Is that what all this is about?"

Her eyes widened.  "I think this is quite likely, in fact; how did you—"

"Gossip," he shrugged.  "You know how things are in a small town.  Sergeant Garcia—the rather . . . hefty one who was here last night—I spoke with him a few days ago.  He told me about the man they were searching for last night, the one who broke out of jail.  Apparently, he and Zorro were both supposed to be mixed up in some sort of a kidnaping and extortion conspiracy."

"That man.  Sí, he is innocent.  El Zorro plans to help him contact the authorities."

Diego frowned thoughtfully and leaned forward a little to rest his lips against his fingers.  He had been wondering just how much of her tale she meant to tell him, and how much of it would match what she had told Zorro.  "How do you know what Zorro plans to do?" he asked.

"Not from gossip."  She squirmed a little, then sighed.  "I suppose I may as well just tell you.  I spoke with him last night after everyone was asleep.  I snuck out."  Then seeing his reaction, she added, "I know this is going to be difficult to believe, Diego, but you see, there is this man named Eusepio Marigál.  He is the kidnaper; he means to abduct you.  And Urbino is in league with him.  He is not what he seems, and I—"

"And you, Señorita?"

Surprised, she looked up into his eyes.  Then she gazed down at her hands again.  "No, I suppose I am not what I seem either," she sighed.  "Few people ever try to look past what I seem to be, nor do I often invite such scrutiny.  Perhaps you have seen more than most.  But you alone can say if what you have seen is enough for you to be able to trust me."

Then she stood up and walked a few steps away from him, and, as she did, he felt another wave of compassion for her, knowing that she was risking, not just her own life, but her brother’s to warn him of this danger.  "Fair enough," he said, watching the leafy shadows filter the sunlight that gleamed here and there in the curls that fell down her back.  Then, as she turned to face him again, he felt he ought to add, "But how do you know you can trust el Zorro?  He is an outlaw, after all."

"I have heard the stories they tell of him," she said with a shrug.  "He doesn’t seem like much of an outlaw.  In fact, he seems to have a great deal of respect for the law—in the hands of honest men.  You may laugh, but Urbino was right.  I am just ‘confused’ enough to think that el Zorro is a true caballero andante, a knight errant."

Now that she was no longer sitting down, he saw there was a book lying on the stone bench beside where she had been.  Picking it up, he smiled when he saw the title: El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha.  And recalling the quote he had tossed at her before, which she had obviously recognized, he opened the book to that familiar passage, chuckling as he read it aloud:

"I felt certain you yourself would agree that true heroes still exist in this world," she said.

Now he had to laugh.  "But Señor Quixote is just a fictional character—and crazy."

"Anyone would have to be crazy to want to be a hero these days, don’t you think?" she said, an impish grin dawning in her eyes again.  "What sane man would risk his life to help a complete stranger get out of jail?  Besides, all heroes are fictional characters, no?  They’re all just the mythic roles that real men play.  But behind even an extraordinary hero, there is always just a man—with weaknesses and needs, just like everyone else.  Wouldn’t you agree?"

He nodded.  Though this was an extraordinary argument, in a way she was perfectly right.  "I may be one of the few scholars who think that el Zorro is only human," he said with a shrug.  "But I’m not sure he would be crazy enough to fight with fierce, hungry lions, let alone windmills."

"I hear he has brought down more than one oppressive political machine."

"He sneaks around late at night and wears a mask."

"And he does not seem to get beaten up quite so often," she said, her eyes dancing.  "Maybe, like Quixote, he isn’t really crazy at all.  Maybe he’s just a little too . . . foolhardy?"

He shook his head, laughing even harder.  How long had it been since he had met anyone with whom he could have such a conversation?  Most of his friends had far less education than he did, and while charmed by books, they really hadn’t read very many.  Then he remembered that she was already a captive, betrothed to a man who saw such talk only as evidence of a nervous disposition.  Setting the book aside, he straightened himself and took a step toward her, collecting his words carefully.

"Forgive me, Señorita, if I speak out of turn," he began.  "But if what you say is true, then Don Urbino is—a criminal.  And at the very least, he seems not to share your interest in books and music.  How can you . . . ?"

"He isn’t a hero," she said, her smile fading.  "But neither is he really such a villain.  He is just weak, and I think Señor Marigál frightens him.  But perhaps he will turn away from this path, if I help him.  And one can learn to enjoy books.  Besides, I made a promise; I cannot break it.  Even Señor Quixote had to quit having adventures in the end, and go home, as he promised he would."

"Though it killed him."

"Words have great power.  They can reach beyond the grave—as well you know," she said, nodding at the book he had left lying on the wall.  "But they lose their power if you break them."  Then she added, "I will live.  But you may not—not if you leave here tomorrow, alone, to arrange for the shipment of those horses.  You must find some excuse to stay home, at least until el Zorro can expose these kidnapers.  Oh please, Diego, you must believe me—for the sake of your father, and for my sake and Urbino’s too.  You cannot imagine what it’s like to have— "

"Señorita, do not move."  For some reason, as she was talking, a speck of movement had caught Diego’s eye just a bit behind her and to her left.  Focusing on it, he had realized it was a spider—a black one, and large.  He reached up to grab the silky thread by which it dangled, trying not to alarm her, but before he knew it, she had grabbed his arm.

"Oh, please do not kill it," she said, withdrawing her hand the instant she felt him flinch.  "It is not poisonous," she added, her voice already trailing away.  For a moment, even the earth held its breath, and suddenly everything beyond the soft shadows of the tree under which they stood—the vivid tiles, the bright flowers, the stucco walls—all of it seemed to fade somehow into a soft dreamlike distance.  Though he himself could almost feel the surge of amazement that jolted her, it left her eyes only a little wider.

He knew he couldn’t lie his way out of this, but somehow he almost didn’t care.  The look of compassion that spread across her face touched him like a sigh of relief, and somewhere deep inside he felt something start to melt, something he hadn’t even known was frozen.  A soft single breath came out of her as her jaw dropped.  Finally, she shook her head and started to laugh, very softly.  "Madre de Dios.  I should have known," she said.  "I did know."

Then she turned away, clearly feeling foolish.  He himself felt awkward and a little embarrassed, but he also remembered how he had felt when women failed to see what was right in front of their eyes, too dazzled by the mask and the sword to find anything of value in the quiet scholar.  Of course, for the most part, he had found the irony amusing, but it had never been purely amusing.  There had always been something wistful about it too.  Now, when she added, "I am sorry," he found himself wanting to touch her, but he didn’t dare.

"For what?" he said instead.  "For having discovered the truth?  Or for the truth itself?"

"For being indelicate enough to let you see that I knew it," she replied, brushing a stray wisp of gold hair from her cheek.  "If you hadn’t caught me by surprise— I have never met anyone who is so good at acting.  Did you study it?"

"No."

"A gift from the gods, then."

"Not the most godly of gifts."

"Do not disparage it," she said.  "What they give they can reclaim."  Then turning to him again she pressed her lips into a rueful smile.  "Now you really will have to let me help you heal that wound, and quickly, too.  I suspect the man who left it there will recognize his handiwork as easily as I have.  He must have been quite a swordsman."

"An associate of Señor Marigál."

"Ah."  She nodded.  Then she brought her hand up carefully as if to touch his arm again, but without actually touching it, as if she were touching something just beside him.  Or as if she didn’t want to seem too bold as she said quietly, "No one will ever know of this from me."  Then, looking up, she added, "You have my word."

Once again he was struck by the color of her eyes.  Though blue, they were dark, and very deep.  Studying them, he somehow knew it wasn’t just Zorro she was seeing.  But perhaps it was Zorro, then, who heard, as if from a vast distance, a strange, vaguely disturbing sound.  Finally, as if it had broken through a thick barrier, he heard it clearly.

It was the shrill, high-pitched sound of a woman screaming.