The Dark Bride

thirty-eight

For a few days now Todos los Santos, who has begun the move toward the great dazzling hereafter, smoking-cigar and all, with foxtails around her neck and pink fur slippers, has begun calling not only her numerous and varied animals Felipe, but also the people around her.

“Come here, you, Felipe,” she orders me, “and listen to what I am going to tell you about my girl Sayonara’s wanderings: When taking the balance of how we have lived, measuring the sum of our days honestly, the rest of us always opt to remain, clinging to the crumbs of our survival; while she was the only one who could really leave, without fear, without a guaranteed return, in the full glory of her blossoming and vigorous life. And in a horrendous display of egotism, and hardness toward others too.”

I ask Todos los Santos how many times, honoring her own name, Sayonara said good-bye.

“You can’t just count the times she left,” she replies, “but also the times she wanted to leave, which were innumerable.”