Camilo

When she opened the door to her room, as she did every morning, she saw her body reflected in the mirror. Her face had the pallor of melted candles. Her chest, beneath the white batiste nightgown, left the pintucks motionless. Her hands, abandoned at her sides like freshly cut calla lilies, whitened hips that had always lacked roundness. Her tawny hair, streaked with reddish strands, rested softly on the pillow, while a porcelain-colored rose watched her from the nightstand. Her mouth, frozen in her final breath—there was no need to close her eyes.

The old mastiff guarded the door, and there, on the threshold, from that same distance that had always separated them, Camilo stood, staring at the image of the lady—his lady—as if she weren’t really there, as if he were gazing at her portrait in one of the many paintings that filled the endless corridors of that now-orphaned estate.

Camilo had no world beyond that one. He was born there and had spent his whole life tending the olive grove, which stretched its power all the way to the horizon like an army of burly soldiers. But above all, he had cared for his mistress with the blind devotion of someone who knows nothing else.

"How can I bury her now, when she looks more beautiful than ever?" thought Camilo. Death had respected her—it had not disfigured her, not one grotesque trace had touched her features. Her face, untouched, now radiated the stillness of someone who no longer had anything to worry about.

“I must tell Miss Adela at once,” he said.

He walked down the hallway toward the library, where the faded medallions of the carpet seemed to rise up to meet him.

"Poor girl, Miss Adela, who couldn’t be there for her mother’s final breath," he repeated, as he searched for the number in a worn leather address book his mistress kept in one of the desk drawers.

A childlike image of Adela came to his mind—he had watched her grow up, too.

“We must call Don Cosme, the parish priest, so he can anoint her. And the mayor... and the doctor..."

“Vicenta, Vicenta!” he shouted as he descended to the kitchen.

“What is it?”

“The Lady needs us.”

With a linen cloth soaked in rose water, they washed her body. They dressed her in the lavender organza dress she had never gotten to wear. On her head, the guipure lace veil looked like a field of flowers.

Camilo had never imagined he’d have to shroud his Lady. Of all the chores he had faced in his life, this was the one he had never once considered. He had managed the harvests, shod the horses, smoothed out rocky paths. Only he knew the heartaches of that angelic being. Only he had been the guardian of the life of a woman he revered in silence.

He prepared the house for the wake; little by little, death’s pallor seeped into everything. Finally, Miss Adela arrived. Camilo had aired out her room—the one facing south, from which even the smallest wild olive trees could be seen. A pitcher of fresh lemonade and newly cut roses on the vanity to sweeten such a bitter moment.

After praying at her mother’s bedside, Adela checked everything: the bouquets of white lilies at the head of the coffin, the lit candles standing guard, the refreshments ready for the visitors. Then she called Camilo to the library.

“We won’t be needing your services anymore, Camilo. You can gather your things and go,” she said, with the coldness of a blade against the throat.

A chasm opened before the poor man, who had known no life other than the one he had devoted to his Lady. Nothing and no one awaited Camilo beyond the borders of the world he had given his life to.

The morning dawned windy, and the sea of olive trees roared like a hungry lion. He saw the dust rise from the path, announcing the arrival of the funeral carriage drawn by two dark horses. He saw strangers loading the coffin and securing it to the hearse, saw the procession stretch out behind it like a stain of burnt oil. From afar, as always, he watched her leave—while the old mastiff licked the dried mud from his boots.

Susana Muñoz C.