The Day of the Moon by Graciela Limón Page A

frightened them even more, heightened their anxiety, increased their fears of what would happen now that El Rarámuri and Isadora were living together.
    The time to implement his scheme arrived. On that day, Don Flavio nervously fingered his bow tie as he stood at the window with his back to the man, a stranger to those parts. He had been hired, at Betancourt’s bidding, by a contact in Los Mochis. Flavio spoke first, his words cautious.
    â€œI don’t answer questions.”
    â€œI don’t ask any.”
    Betancourt whipped his head toward the man, surprised by the sharpness of the reply as well as the coldness of the voice. When Don Flavio looked him over, he saw that the man’s appearance masked his words and voice: wire-rimmed glasses; shortsighted eyes; round, pink face; tiny, carefully trimmed mustache; double-breasted serge suit; straw hat nestled daintily on his lap. He looked like a schoolteacher, or even a banker, Flavio told himself.
    â€œWhat are your terms?”
    â€œFive thousand. In gold. No paper. Fifty percent now, the rest after the project is completed. “
    â€œWhat are your weapons?”
    â€œThe ones you wish.”
    â€œWhen?
    â€œWhenever you say.”
    The rapid exchange weakened Flavio’s knees. He took a seat facing the small man. He scrutinized the assassin’s features, his body, the way he sat. Flavio had decided to have Jerónimo Santiago taken out of Isadora’s life, and although he had analyzed, questioned, sometimes even doubted his decision, in the end Flavio found no other way.
    His mind darted back, reliving the bitter confrontation between himself and Isadora. He admitted that it had been he who had provoked the clash with his daughter when he became convinced that she was indeed the woman of El Rarámuri. At the time Flavio had been certain that he would be able to change her mind, to prevail by using his authority if necessary. But Isadora was rebellious, unbending, and instead of trying to hide the truth, she flaunted it to his face.
    Months had passed since then. Now, facing the man who would be Jerónimo’s executioner, Flavio inexplicably began to waver. He had thought that he was unconditionally committed to the plan that he had hatched, but the sight of this assassin seated in front of him began to unnerve him. He had taken part in bloodshed during the Revolution—what man had not, he asked himself. But he had never ordered the death of any man.
    He looked at the small man and thought he saw an amused expression on his face. His eyebrows had arched and his mouth had rounded to a tiny circle, emphasizing his pencil-line mustache. Flavio lowered his eyes, trying to hide the emotions within him. He wanted to appear hard, determined.
    His mind calculated: Isadora had been bewitched by Jerónimo, and she was set on living among his people as if she were one of them. Of this Flavio had no doubt. Nothing short of the man’s elimination would take her from his side because she was now beyond reason. By her own admission, she was carrying a child and in time everyone would know who had spawned the creature. As for his grandson Samuel, there were only two ways: Either he would stay with his mother and become a primitive like the peoplesurrounding him, or return to Flavio to face a life of mockery and humiliation because of what his mother had done.
    Putting together these considerations renewed Flavio’s resolve. But then he was assailed by a new apprehension: What about Isadora? She would certainly know that it was he who had ordered her lover’s death. How would she react? Would she hate him? Would she choose to live among those people in a cave—even without El Rarámuri
?
But these thoughts could not now change Flavio’s mind. He was certain that he had no alternative. He could not stand by and watch his daughter mix with those people; he could not allow the intolerable offense to go without