people surrounding her stepped aside, as if a sea were parting.
Slowly he bent down and carefully held the child the woman had birthed.
“Death, overcome,” the man said.
But when he raised his arms, Noemí saw he held no child. The woman had given birth to a gray lump of flesh, almost egg-shaped, covered in a thick membrane and slick with blood.
It was a tumor. It did not live. Yet it pulsated gently. The lump quivered, and as it did the membrane ruptured and slid aside. It burst, sending a golden cloud of dust into the air, and the man breathed in the dust. The woman’s attendants, the people with their candles and lanterns, and all the onlookers moved closer, holding their hands up, as if to touch the golden dust, which slowly, ever so slowly, fell upon the ground.
Everyone had forgotten the woman, focused now, singularly, on the lump that the man was hoisting above his head.
Only the little girl paid the shivering, exhausted figure on the ground any attention. The child approached her, pressed the cloth she had been holding against the woman’s face, as if veiling a bride, and held it tight. The woman convulsed, unable to breathe; she tried to scratch the child, but the woman was exhausted and the child, her cheeks red, held on tight. As the woman quivered and suffocated, the man repeated the same words.
“Death, overcome,” he said, and he raised his eyes, staring at Noemí.
It was then, when he looked at her, that she remembered to be afraid, that she remembered revulsion and horror, and turned her face away. Her mouth had the coppery taste of blood, and in her ears there was a faint buzzing sound.
When Noemí woke up she was standing at the foot of the stairs, moonlight streaming through the colored glass windows, tinting her pale nightgown yellow and red. A clock struck the hour and floorboards creaked, and she rested a hand on the banister, listening intently.
15
Noemí knocked and waited, and waited some more, but no one came to the door. She stood outside Marta’s house, nervously pulling at her purse’s strap before finally conceding defeat and walking back toward Francis, who was looking at her curiously. They’d parked the car near the town square and walked over together, even though she’d told him he could wait for her just like last time. But he said he could use the walk. She wondered if he was trying to keep an eye on her.
“No one seems to be home,” Noemí said.
“Do you want to wait?”
“No. I need to stop by the health clinic.”
He nodded, and they slowly headed back toward what constituted the downtown section of El Triunfo, where there was a real road instead of muddy paths. Noemí was afraid the doctor wouldn’t be in yet either, but as they reached the door of the clinic, Julio Camarillo rounded the corner.
“Dr. Camarillo,” she said.
“Good morning,” he replied. He was carrying a paper bag under one arm and his medical bag in the other. “You’re up early. Will you hold this for a moment?”
Francis stretched out his hands and grabbed the medical bag. Dr. Camarillo took out a set of keys and unlocked the door, holding it open for them. Then he walked toward the counter, placed the paper bag behind it, and smiled at them.
“I don’t think I’ve met you officially,” Julio said, “but I’ve seen you at the post office before, with Dr. Cummins. You’re Francis, aren’t you?”
The blond man nodded. “I’m Francis,” he said simply.
“Yes, when I took over Dr. Corona’s practice in the winter he actually mentioned you and your father. I think they might have played cards together. A good chap, Dr. Corona. But, anyway, is that hand bothering you, Noemí? Is that why you’re here?”
“Could we talk? Do you have time?”
“Sure. Come in,” the doctor said.
Noemí followed him into his office. She turned her head to see if Francis planned to accompany her, but he was sitting on one of the chairs in the lobby, his hands in his pockets, his gaze on the floor. If he wanted to keep an eye on her, he wasn’t doing that good a job; he could easily have eavesdropped on her entire conversation. She was relieved to think he wasn’t interested in that. Noemí closed the door and sat across from Dr. Camarillo, who settled behind his desk.
“Now, what is the matter?”
“Catalina had a seizure,” Noemí said.
“A seizure? Is she epileptic?”
“No. I purchased a tonic,