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They had nine fellow travelers, an empty seat affording a place for Noé to nap, or an extra spot for someone to stretch and doze for a bit. Endless rounds of cards occupied the days of the men, endless numbers of cigars, and from one señora and señor, endless amounts of bickering. Estela and Josefina alternated sitting by a window, which offered relief from the motion sickness induced by the constant bumping. Estela longed to sit on top with the driver, as the men sometimes did, but did not want to draw undue attention to herself. At least three in the carriage knew who she was, but pretended that they did not. Estela did not pay much heed. In her mind, she replayed over and over her parting with Zacarías, her apprehension of Victoria coming into the house with her shoes and stockings in hand, the wedding at which she and Dr. Victor Carranza saw to the marriage of Victoria and the young soldier. Never to be for us, she thought, love of my life, yet never to be for us. Estela had not known what to pack for the journey, since she had no idea what she would do once she arrived. She had a vague notion that people would meet her and, seeing that she meant well—or at least no harm—conduct her to a safe place to stay until she could make some decisions. She had packed four dresses, two hats, and two pairs of boots. She had brought a good coat, a nightgown, and a set of four plates she had inherited from her grandmother and which she had always loved. She brought an extra shawl, clothes for Noé, and a parasol. She brought a valuable piece of her mother's jewelry, hidden in a false compartment in the trunk. Estela also brought one book of poetry that she read and reread on the coach, a book about a beloved who could never be obtained, about death transforming us into a part of nature, and other rich, dark, brooding thoughts. Its author, Manuel Acuña, son of Saltillo, had shot himself over a married woman in Mexico City some years earlier, ending a potential medical career. In death he was famous and, as he predicted, a part of the Mexican landscape. When she could, Estela slept, and when she woke, her heart ached—for what, she could not say. Of course, her heart ached for all of the happy conjunctions we all wish for, to live out our lives in the place of our choice with the person of our choice, perhaps to raise happy, healthy children, to hear the birds sing, and be greeted with respect by one's neighbors. But as with most of us, this was not to be. And so Estela traveled on across the sprawling, mysterious country of Mexico, here and there densely peopled, but otherwise slumbering in its neglect, like the innocent daughter of a rural farmer, unaware of her dark and careless beauty. In a way, over these endless miles, Estela's mind fell back into the dreaming slumber it had occupied before she met Victor Carranza, when she thought that she was relatively happy in her marriage. It was a sort of dreamworld filled with exotic images and half-implied romances. San Luis Potosí, with its eighteen towers and domes, sparked an extended daydream of Moorish principalities. San Miguel de Allende put her in mind of a medieval village, and its constantly tolling bells kept her from sleeping during the night spent there. |