IsidoroBaltazar's office-studioconsisted of one rectangular room overlooking a parking lot, a small kitchen,and a pink-tiled bathroom. He took me there the night we returned from Sonora.Too exhausted to notice anything, I followed him up the two flights of stairs,along a darkly carpeted corridor to apartment number 8. The instant my head hitthe pillow, I was asleep and dreamt that we were still on the road. We haddriven nonstop all the way from Sonora, alternating with each other at thewheel and pausing only to eat or fill up the gas tank.  

The apartment was sparselyfurnished. Beside the twin bed, he had a long, masonite folding picnic tablethat served as his desk, a folding chair, and two metal filing cabinets inwhich he kept his field notes. Several suits and half a dozen shirts hung inthe two big closets in the hall. The rest of the space was taken up by books.They were stacked up in piles. There were no bookcases. The books appeared tohave never been touched, let alone read. The cupboards in the kitchen were alsocrammed with books, except for one shelf, which had been set aside for a plate,a mug, a knife, a fork, and a spoon. On the gas stove stood a kettle and asaucepan.  

Within three weeks I found myselfa new apartment, about a mile down the street from the UCLA campus, rightaround the corner from his office-studio. Yet I continued to spend most of mytime at his place. He had set up a second twin bed for me, a card table, and afolding chair- identical to his- at the other end of the room.  

In the six months that followed,Sonora became a mythological place for me. Having no longer any desire to blockaway my experiences, I juxtaposed the memories of the two times I had beenthere. But hard as I tried, I couldn't remember a thing about the eleven days Ihad lost: one during the first trip, ten during the second.  

IsidoroBaltazar plainly refusedeven to mention the idea of having lost those days. At times, I was in totalagreement with him: The absurdity of considering those days lost simply becauseI couldn't remember them became so plain to me that I was filled with gratitudetoward him for attaching no importance to the matter. It was clear that he wasprotecting me. At other times, however, for no reason at all, I nursed a deepresentment. It was his duty to help me, to clarify the mystery for me, Irepeated to myself, until I was convinced he was purposely hiding things fromme.  

"You'll drive yourself nutsif you keep harping on it," he finally said one day. "And all yourturmoil will be for nothing, because it will resolve nothing." Hehesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to voice what he was about to say next,then shrugged and added in a challenging tone, "Why don't you use the sameenergy in a more practical manner, like lining up and examining your badhabits."  

Instead of admitting to such anotion, I immediately counter-attacked with the other complaint that had beenbrewing inside me. I still hadn't met the other young women who had beenentrusted to him by the old nagual.  

He had told me so much about themthat I felt I already knew them. Whenever I had asked him about them, he hadanswered my questions at great length. He spoke rapturously about them. Withprofound and obviously sincere admiration, he had said that an outsider would describethem as attractive, intelligent, accomplished- they all possessed advanceduniversity degrees- self-assured, and fiercely independent.  

To him, however, they were muchmore than that: They were magical beings who shared his destiny.  

They were linked to him by tiesof affection and commitment that had nothing to do with the social order.  

They shared in common theirsearch for freedom.  

Once, I even gave him anultimatum. "You've got to take me to them, or else."  

IsidoroBaltazar laughed gaily, adeep, chuckling laugh. "All I can tell you is that nothing is as youimagine," he said. "And there is no way to tell when you will finallymeet them. You'll just have to wait."

"I've waited longenough!" I shouted. Seeing no reaction on his face, I added derisively,"You're deluding yourself if you believe that I will find a bunch of womenin Los Angeles. I don't even know where to start looking."  

"You'll find them the wayyou found me," he stated, "the way you found MarianoAureliano."  

I regarded him suspiciously. Icouldn't help but suspect that there was a sort of secret malice about him."I wasn't looking for you," I pointed out peevishly. "Nor was Ilooking for Mariano Aureliano. Believe me, meeting you and him was purelyaccidental."  

"There are no accidentalmeetings in the sorcerers' world," he noted casually. I was on the vergeof telling him that I didn't need this kind of advice when he added in aserious voice, "You'll meet them when the time is right. You don't have togo looking for them."  

Facing the wall, I counted toten, then turned toward him smiling and said sweetly, "The problem withyou is that you're a typical Latin. Tomorrow is always good enough for you.You've no concept of getting things done." I raised my voice to prevent himfrom interrupting me. "My insistence on meeting your friends is to speedthings up."  

"To speed things up?"he repeated uncomprehendingly. "What's there to speed up?"  

"You have been telling mealmost daily that there is so little left," I reminded him. "You,yourself, are always talking about how important it is for me to meet them, andyet you act as if you had an eternity before you."  

"I tell you this constantlybecause I want you to hurry and clean your inner being, not because I wantmeaningless acts done as fast as you can," he said impatiently. "Itisn't up to me to introduce them to you. If it were up to me, I wouldn't besitting here listening to your inanities." He closed his eyes and sighedexaggeratedly in mock resignation. He smiled, then mumbled softly, "You'retoo dumb to see what's happening."  

"Nothing is happening,"I retorted, stung by his insult. "I'm not as stupid as you think. I'venoticed this air of ambivalence about your reactions toward me. Sometimes Ihave the distinct impression that you don't know what to do with me."  

"I know exactly what todo," he contradicted me.  

"Then why do you alwaysappear undecided when I propose something?" The words had escaped me as ifof their own accord.  

IsidoreBaltazar looked sharply atme. For a moment I expected that he would attack me with those quick, harshwords he could use, demolish me with some sharp criticism. But his voice wassurprisingly gentle when he said that I was quite right in my assessment.  

"I always wait till events makea choice for me," he affirmed. "And then I move with speed and vigor.I will leave you behind if you don't watch out."  

"I'm already farbehind," I said in a self-pitying tone. "Since you won't help me findthese women, I'm doomed to remain behind."  

"But this is not the realpressing problem," he said. "You haven't yet made your decision,that's the trouble." He lifted his brows expectantly, as if waiting for myimpending outburst.  

"I don't know what you mean.What is it I have to decide?"  

"You haven't decided to jointhe sorcerers' world. You're standing at the threshold, looking in, waiting tosee what's going to happen. You're waiting for something practical that willmake it worth your while."  

Words of protest rose in mythroat. But before I could give vent to my profound indignation, he said that Ihad the mistaken idea that moving into a new apartment and leaving my oldlife-style behind was a change.  

"What is it then?" Iasked sarcastically.  

"You haven't left anythingbehind, except your belongings," he said, ignoring my tone. "For somepeople that is a gigantic step. For you, though, it's nothing. You don't careabout possessions."  

"No, I don't," Iagreed, then insisted that regardless of what he believed, I had made mydecision to join the sorcerers' world a long time ago. "Why do you thinkI'm sitting here if I haven't joined yet?"

"You have certainly joinedit in body," he stated, "but not in spirit. Now you are waiting forsome kind of map, some comforting blueprint before you make your finaldecision. Meanwhile, you'll go on humoring them. The main problem with you isthat you want to be convinced that the sorcerers' world has something tooffer."  

"Doesn't it?" I blurtedout.  

IsidoroBaltazar turned to me, hisface crinkling with delight. "Yes, it has something very special to offer.It's called freedom. However, there's no guarantee that you'll succeed inattaining it; that any of us, for that matter, will succeed."  

I nodded thoughtfully, then askedhim what I had to do to convince him that I had indeed joined the sorcerers'world.  

"You don't have to convinceme. You have to convince the spirit. You have to close the door behindyou."  

"What door?"  

"The one you still keepopen. The door that will permit you to escape if things are not to your likingor don't fit your expectations."

"Are you saying that I willleave?"  

He regarded me with an enigmaticexpression, then shrugged his shoulders and in a voice that was but a meremurmur said, "That's between you and the spirit."  

"But if you yourself believethat--"  

"I don't believeanything," he cut me short. "You came into this world the wayeverybody else did. It was none of anybody's doing. And it will be none ofanybody's doing if you or anyone else decides to leave."  

I gazed at him in confusion."But surely you'll try to convince... if I..." I stammered.  

He shook his head before Ifinished speaking. "I will not convince you or anyone else. There will beno power in your decision if you need to be propped up every time you falter ordoubt."  

"But who will help me?"I asked, stricken.  

"I will. I'm yourservant." He smiled, not cynically but shyly and sweetly. "But Iserve the spirit first. A warrior is not a slave but a servant of the spirit.Slaves have no choice; servants do. Warriors' choice is to serveimpeccably.  

"My help is exempt fromcalculation," he continued. "I cannot invest in you, and neither, ofcourse, can you invest in me or in the sorcerers' world. This is the basicpremise of that world: Nothing is done in it that might be construed as useful;only strategic acts are permitted. This is what the nagual Juan Matus taught meand the way I live: A sorcerer practices what he or she preaches. And yetnothing is done for practical reasons. When you get to understand and practicethis, you will have closed the door behind you."  

A long, breathless silencesettled between us. I changed positions on the bed where I was sitting.Thoughts swarmed into my head. Perhaps none of the sorcerers would believe me, butI had certainly changed, a change that had been almost imperceptible at first.I noticed it because it had to do with the most difficult thing some of uswomen can encounter: jealousy and the need to know.  

My fits of jealously were apretense, not necessarily a conscious one, but nevertheless there was somethingof a posturing about them. Something in me demanded that I be jealous of allthe other women in IsidoreBaltazar's life. But then something in me was keenlyaware that the new nagual's life wasn't the life of an ordinary man, not evenone who might have many wives. Our relation, if it could be called that, didnot fit into any kind of habitual, known mold, no matter how I tried to make itfit into that mold. In order for jealousy and possessiveness to have a grasp,it needs a mirror; not only one's own, but one's partner's as well. AndIsidoreBaltazar no longer mirrored the drives, needs, feelings, and emotions ofa man.  

My need to know aboutIsidoreBaltazar's life was an overpowering need: It simply consumed me that henever allowed me a real entry into his private world. And yet I did nothingabout it. It would have been quite simple to follow him or to snoop through hispapers and find out once and for all who he really was, I often reminded myself.But I couldn't do it. Something in me knew that I could not proceed with him asI normally would have done. What stopped me, more than any sense of propriety,was the trust he had bestowed on me. He had given me complete access to hisbelongings, and that made him, not only in practice but even in my thoughts,inviolable.  

I laughed out loud. I didunderstand what a warrior's strategic act was. IsidoreBaltazar was wrong. Hewas taking my lifelong habit of moodiness and Germanic finickiness as lack ofcommitment. It didn't matter. I knew that I had at least begun to understandand practice the warrior's strategy, at least when he was present- notnecessarily present in the studio but present in Los Angeles. In his absence,however, I often began to falter, and when I did, I usually went to sleep inhis studio.  

One night, as I was inserting mykey in the lock, I felt an arm reach out and pull me in.  

I screamed in terror."What... what...," I stammered as the hand that was holding my armlet go of me.  

Trying to regain my balance, Ileaned against the wall. My heart thumped wildly.  

"Florinda!" I stared ather, bewildered. She had on a long robe, gathered at the waist. Her hair hungloose down the sides and back. I wondered whether she was real or merely ashadowy apparition, rimmed by the faint light behind her shoulders. I movedtoward her and surreptitiously touched her sleeve.  

"Is that you, Florinda? Oram I dreaming?"  

"It's the real thing, dear.The real me."

"How did you get here? Areyou all by yourself?" I was well aware of the futility of asking herthat.  

"Had I known that you wouldcome, I would have started earlier with my cleaning," I said, trying tosmile. My lips stuck to my teeth. "I love to clean IsidoreBaltazar'sstudio at night. I always clean at night."

Instead of making any remark,Florinda turned sideways, so the light hit her face.  

A wicked smile of delight dawnedin her eyes. "I told you never to follow any one of us or come uninvited.You're lucky," she said. "You're lucky it wasn't someone else whopulled you in here tonight."  

"Who else could have pulledme in?" I asked with a bravado I was far from feeling.  

Florinda gazed at me for a momentlonger, then turned around and said over her shoulder, "Someone who wouldn'thave cared if you had died of fright."

She moved her head slightly, soher profile was outlined by the faint light. She laughed softly, and, wavingher hand in the air as if to brush away the words, she traveled the length ofthe room to the small kitchen. She seemed not to walk but to glide in a sort ofundeliberate dance. It made her long white hair, hanging unbraided down herback, shimmer like a silvery curtain in the uncertain light.  

Trying to imitate her gracefulwalk, I followed behind her. "I do have a key, you know," I said."I've been coming here every day, at any hour, since we returned fromSonora. In fact, I practically live here."

"Didn't IsidoreBaltazar tellyou not to come here while he's in Mexico?" Florinda's tone was even,almost casual. She was not accusing me, yet I felt she was.  

"He might have mentionedsomething," I remarked with studied indifference. Seeing that she frowned,I felt compelled to defend myself. I told her that I was often there by myselfand that I didn't think it would make any difference whether IsidoreBaltazarwas five miles or five hundred miles away. Emboldened by her repeated nods, Iconfided that besides doing my schoolwork there, I spent hours rearranging thebooks in the closets. I had been restacking them by author and subject matter."Some of the books are so new the pages are still uncut," Iexplained. "I've been separating them. In fact, that's what I came here todo tonight."  

"At three in themorning?" she exclaimed.  

Blushing, I nodded. "Thereare plenty of pages still to cut. It takes forever in that one has to be verycareful not to damage the pages. It's soothing work, though. It helps mesleep."  

"Extraordinary,"Florinda said softly.  

Encouraged by her obviousapproval, I went on talking. "I'm sure you can understand what being heredoes to me," I said. "In this apartment, I feel detached from my oldlife, from everything and everyone but IsidoreBaltazar and his magical world.The very air fills me with a sense of utter remoteness."  

I sighed, long and loudly."Here I never feel alone, even though most of the time I'm here by myself.Something about the atmosphere of this apartment reminds me of the witches'house. That same coldness and lack of feeling, which at first I had found sodisturbing, permeates the walls. And it's precisely this lack of warmth, thisremoteness, that I seek day and night. I find it oddly reassuring. It gives mestrength."  

"Incredible," Florindawhispered as if in disbelief and took the kettle to the sink.  

She said something, which Ididn't hear above the splash of water, then put the waterfilled kettle on thestove.  

"I'm so happy that you feelso at home here," she said, sighing dramatically. "The security youmust feel in such a little nest, knowing you have a companion." She addedin a most facetious tone that I should do everything I could to makeIsidoreBaltazar happy and that included sexual practices, which she describedwith horrendous directness.  

Stupefied to hear such things, Istared at her open-mouthed. With the assuredness and efficiency of someonefamiliar with the peculiar setup of the kitchen, she produced the two mugs, myspecial teapot, and the bag of chocolate chip cookies I kept hidden in thecupboards behind the thick German and French Cassels' dictionaries.  

Smiling, Florinda turned to meand asked abruptly, "Whom did you expect to find here tonight?"  

"Not you!" I blurtedout, realizing too late that my answer had given me away. I went into a lengthyand elaborate elucidation of why I believed I might find there, if not all ofthem, then at least one of the other young women.  

"They will cross your pathwhen the time is right," Florinda said. "It isn't up to you to forcean encounter with them."  

Before I knew what I was saying,I found myself blaming her, as well as Mariano Aureliano and IsidoreBaltazar,for my sneakiness. I told her that it was impractical- not to mentionimpossible- for them to expect me to wait until some unknown women crossed mypath and to believe that I would actually recognize them by something soinconceivable as their inner glow. As usual, the more I complained, the betterI felt.  

Florinda ignored me. "One,two spoonfuls, and one for the pot," she chanted in an exaggerated Britishaccent as she measured out the tea.  

Then in a most casual manner sheremarked that the only capricious and impractical thing was for me to think ofand treat IsidoreBaltazar as a man.  

"I don't know what youmean," I said defensively.  

She gazed at me intently until Iblushed. "You know exactly what I mean," she stated, then poured thetea into the mugs.  

With a quick gesture of her chinshe indicated which of the two I should take. With the bag of cookies in herhand she sat on IsidoreBaltazar's bed, the one nearest to the kitchen. Slowly,she sipped her tea. I sat beside her and did the same.  

"You haven't changed atall," she said all of a sudden.  

"That's pretty much whatIsidoreBaltazar said to me some days ago," I retorted. "I know,however, that I've changed a great deal."

I told her that my world had beenturned upside down since my return from Sonora. At great length I explainedabout finding a new apartment, about moving and leaving everything I ownedbehind.  

She did not so much as nod butsat there silent and stiff like a stone.

"Actually, I can't take muchcredit for disrupting routines or becoming inaccessible," I conceded,laughing nervously and faltering on through her silence:  

"Anyone in close contactwith IsidoreBaltazar will forget that there are boundaries between night andday, between weekdays and holidays."

I glanced at her sideways,pleased with my words. "Time just flows by and gives way to some..."but I couldn't finish the sentence: I had been hit by a strange thought.  

Nobody, in my memory, had evertold me about disrupting routines or becoming inaccessible.  

I regarded Florinda intently,then my glance wavered involuntarily. Was it her doing? I asked myself. Wheredid I get these ideas? And what was even more baffling, I knew exactly what theseideas meant.  

"This should be a warningthat something is just about to pop out of you," Florinda said, as if shehad followed my train of thoughts.  

She went on to say that whateverI had done so far in dreams hadn't imbued my waking hours with the necessaryhardness, the necessary self-discipline needed to fare in the sorcerers'world.  

"I've never done anythinglike this in my life," I said. "Give me a break. I am new atit."  

"Of course," shereadily agreed.  

She reclined her head against thepillows and closed her eyes.  

She was silent for so long Ithought she had fallen asleep, and thus I was startled when she said, "Areal change is not a change of mood or attitude or outlook. A real changeinvolves a total transformation of the self."  

Seeing that I was about tointerrupt her, she pressed her finders against my lips and added, "Thekind of change I'm talking about cannot be accomplished in three months or in ayear or in ten. It will take a lifetime."

She said that it wasextraordinarily difficult to become something different than what one wasraised to be.  

"The world of sorcerers is adream; a myth: yet it is as real as the everyday world," Florindaproceeded:  

"In order to perceive and tofunction in the sorcerers' world, we have to take off the everyday mask thathas been strapped to our faces since the day we were born and put on the secondmask; the mask that enables us to see ourselves and our surroundings for whatthey really are: breathtaking events that bloom into transitory existence once,and are never to be repeated again.  

"You'll have to make thatmask yourself." She settled more comfortably on the bed and, cupping herhands around the mug, which I had refilled, took noisy little sips.  

"How do I make thismask?" I asked.  

"By dreaming your otherself," she murmured:  

"Certainly not by justhaving a new address, new clothes, new books."

She glanced at me sideways andgrinned mockingly. "And certainly not by believing you have a newman."  

Before I could deny her brutalaccusation, she said that outwardly I was a fluid person, capable of moving atgreat speed. But inside I was rigid and stiff.

As IsidoreBaltazar had remarkedalready, she, too, maintained that it was fallacious for me to believe thatmoving into a new apartment and compulsively giving away all I possessed was achange.  

I bowed my head, accepting hercriticism. I had always had an urge to get rid of things. And as she hadpointed out, it was basically a compulsion. To my parents' chagrin, I hadperiodically disposed of my clothes and toys since early childhood. My joy atseeing my room and closets neatly arranged and nearly empty surpassed the joyof having things.  

Sometimes my compulsion was sooverpowering that I thinned out my parents' and brothers' closets as well.Hardly ever were these items missed, for I always made sure to get rid ofclothes I hadn't seen anyone wear for a while. Quite a few times, nevertheless,the whole household would explode in sudden and total confusion as my fatherwent from room to room, opening wardrobes and yelling, searching for a specificshirt or a pair of pants.  

Florinda laughed, then got to herfeet and moved to the window overlooking the alley. She stared at the black-outcurtain as though she could see through it.

Glancing backward over hershoulder, she said that for a woman it is a great deal easier than for a man tobreak ties with family and past.  

"Women," shemaintained, "are not accountable. This lack of accountability gives womena great deal of fluidity.  

"Unfortunately, womenrarely, if ever, make use of this advantage."  

She moved about the room, herhand trailing over the large metal filing cabinet and over the folding cardtable.  

"The hardest thing to graspabout the sorcerers' world is that it offers total freedom." She turned toface me and added softly, "But freedom is not free."  

"What does freedomcost?"  

She said, "Freedom will costyou the mask you have on; The mask that feels so comfortable and is so hard toshed off; not because it fits so well, but because you have been wearing it forso long."  

She stopped pacing about the roomand came to stand in front of the card table.

"Do you know what freedomis?" she asked rhetorically. "Freedom is the total absence of concernabout yourself," she said, sitting beside me on the bed.  

"And the best way to quitbeing concerned with yourself is to be concerned about others."  

"I am," I assured her."I constantly think of IsidoreBaltazar and his women."  

"I'm sure you do,"Florinda readily agreed.  

She shook her head and yawned."It's time for you to begin to shape your new mask; the mask that cannothave anyone's imprint but your own.  

"It has to be carved insolitude. Otherwise it won't fit properly. Otherwise there will always be timeswhen the mask will feel too tight, too loose, too hot, too cold ..." Hervoice trailed off as she went on enumerating the most outlandishdiscomforts.  

A long silence ensued, and thenin that same sleepy voice she said, "To choose the sorcerers' world is notjust a matter of saying you have. You have to act in that world.  

"In your case, you have todream. Have you dreamt-awake since your return?"  

In a thoroughly morose mood, Iadmitted that I hadn't.  

"Then you haven't made yourdecision yet," she observed severely. "You are not carving your newmask. You are not dreaming your other self.

"Sorcerers are bound totheir world solely through their impeccability."  

A definite gleam appeared in hereyes as she added, "Sorcerers have no interest to convert anyone to theirviews.  

"There are no gurus or wisemen among sorcerers, only naguals.  

"They are the leaders, notbecause they know more or because they are in any way better sorcerers, butsimply because they have more energy.  

"I'm not necessarily referringto physical strength," she qualified, "but to a certain configurationof their being that permits them to help anyone break the parameters ofperception."  

"If sorcerers are notinterested in converting anyone to their views, why then is IsidoreBaltazar theold nagual's apprentice?" I interrupted her.  

"IsidoreBaltazar appeared inthe sorcerers' world the same way you did," she said. "Whatever itwas that brought him could not be ignored by Mariano Aureliano. It was his dutyto teach IsidoreBaltazar all he knew about the sorcerers' world."  

She explained that no one hadbeen looking for IsidoreBaltazar or for me. Whatever had brought us into theirworld had nothing to do with anyone's doing or volition.  

"There is nothing any one ofus would do to keep you against your will in this magical world," shesaid, smiling:  

"And yet we would do anyimaginable or unimaginable thing to help you stay in it."  

Florinda turned sideways as ifshe wanted to hide her face from me.  

An instant later she looked backover her shoulder. Something cold and detached showed in her eyes, and thechange of expression was altogether so remarkable that I was frightened.Instinctively, I moved away from her.  

"The only thing I cannot andwill not do, and neither will IsidoreBaltazar, for that matter, is to help yoube your old ugly, greedy, indulgent self. That would be a travesty."  

As if to soften the insult, sheput her arm around my shoulders and hugged me.

"I'll tell you what youneed," she whispered; but then was silent for so long I thought she hadforgotten what she was going to say.  

"You need a good night'ssleep," she finally murmured.  

"I'm not in the leasttired," I retorted.  

My response was automatic, and Irealized that most of my responses were contradictions of what was being said.For me, it was a matter of principle to be right.  

Florinda laughed softly, thenembraced me again. "Don't be so Germanic," she murmured. "Anddon't expect everything to be spelled out clearly and precisely toyou."  

She added that nothing in thesorcerers' world was clear and precise: Instead, things unfolded slowly andvaguely.  

"IsidoreBaltazar will helpyou," she assured me. "However, do remember that he won't help you inthe way you expect to be helped."  

"What do you mean?" Iasked, disentangling myself from her arms so I could look at her.  

"He will not tell you whatyou want to hear. He will not tell you how to behave, for, as you already know,there are neither rules nor regulations in the sorcerers' world."  

She giggled gleefully, seeminglyenjoying my growing frustration.  

"Always remember, there areonly improvisations," she added, then, yawning widely, she stretched outfully on the bed and reached for one of the neatly folded blankets stacked onthe floor.  

Before she covered herself, sherose up on her elbow and looked at me closely. There was something hypnoticabout her sleepy voice as she told me that I should always bear in mind that Itraveled on the same warrior's path as IsidoreBaltazar.  

She closed her eyes, and in avoice that was almost too faint to be heard said, "Never lose sight ofhim. His actions will guide you in so artful a manner that you won't evennotice it. He's an impeccable and peerless warrior."  

I urgently shook her arm. I was afraidshe would fall asleep before she finished talking.  

Without opening her eyes,Florinda said, "If you watch him carefully, you'll see thatIsidoreBaltazar doesn't seek love or approval.

"You'll see that he remainsimpassive under any conditions.  

"He doesn't demand anything,yet he is willing to give anything of himself.

"He avidly seeks a signalfrom the spirit in the form of a kind word; an appropriate gesture... and whenhe gets it, he expresses his thanks by redoubling his efforts.  

"IsidoreBaltazar doesn'tjudge. He fiercely reduces himself to nothing in order to listen, to watch, sothat he can conquer and be humbled by his conquest; or be defeated and enhancedby his defeat.  

"If you watch carefully,you'll see that IsidoreBaltazar doesn't surrender. He may be vanquished, buthe'll never surrender.  

"And above all,IsidoreBaltazar is free."  

I was dying to interrupt her, tocry out that she had already told me all that, but before I could ask heranything else, Florinda was sound asleep.

Afraid I might miss her in themorning if I returned to my apartment, I sat down on the other bed.  

Strange thoughts rushed into myawareness.  

I relaxed. I let myself gocompletely as I realized that they were disconnected from the rest of my normalthoughts.  

I saw them like beams of light,flashes of intuition.  

Following one of those flashes ofintuition, I decided to feel with my seat the bed I was sitting on. And to mydumbfounded surprise, my buttocks felt as if they had sunk into the bed itself.  

For an instant, I was the bed,and the bed was reaching out to touch my buttocks. I relished this sensationfor quite some time.  

I knew then that I was dreaming,and I understood with complete clarity that I had just felt what Esperanza haddescribed as 'my feeling being thrown back at me.'  

And then my whole being melted,or better yet, it exploded.  

I wanted to laugh out loud forthe sheer joy of it, but I didn't want to wake Florinda. I had remembered itall!  

Now I had no difficulty whatsoeverin recalling what I had done in the witches' house in those ten lost days. Ihad dreamt!  

Under Esperanza's watchful eye, Ihad dreamt on and on of waking up in the witches' house or in Esperanza's placeor sometimes in other places I couldn't quite see at the moment.  

Clara had insisted that beforeany particular thing I saw in dreams could be fixed permanently in my memory, Ineeded to see it twice.  

I had seen all the women morethan twice: They were permanently etched in my memory.  

As I sat there on the bedwatching Florinda sleep, I remembered the other women of the sorcerers' partywith whom I had interacted in a dreamlike state during those forgottendays.  

I saw them clearly, as if theyhad conjured themselves up before me; or rather, as if I had been transported,bodily, back to those events.  

The most striking to me wasNelida, who looked so much like Florinda that at first I believed she was hertwin. Not only was she is tall and thin as Florinda, but she had the same coloreyes, hair, ind complexion: Even their expressions were the same.Temperamentally, they were alike, too, except that Nelida came across as moresubdued, less forceful. She seemed to lack Florinda's wisdom and energeticforce. And yet there was a patient, silent strength to Nelida that was veryreassuring.  

Hermelinda could have easilypassed as Carmela's younger sister. Her thin, five-foot twoinch body wasdelicately rounded and so were her exquisite manners. She appeared to be lessself-assured than Carmela. She was soft-spoken and moved in quick jerks thatsomehow meshed into gracefulness. Her companions told me that her shyness andquietness brought out the best in others and that she could not handle a groupor even two people at the same time.  

Clara and Delia made a stupendousteam of pranksters. They weren't really as big as they first appeared. It wastheir robustness, their vigor and energy, that made one think they were large,indestructible women. And they did play the most delightful competitive games.They paraded their outlandishly eccentric outfits at he slightest opportunity.Both played the guitar very well and had beautiful voices to match: They sang,one trying to outdo the other, not only in Spanish, but in English, German,French, and Italian as well. Their repertoire included ballads, folk songs,every conceivable popular song including the latest pop songs. I only had tohum or recite the first line of a song and either Clara or Delia wouldimmediately finish the whole song for me. And then they had their poem writingcontests, writing verse to the occasion.

They had written poems to me andslipped them under my door, unsigned. I had to guess who had written the poem.Each claimed that if I truly loved her, as she loved me, I would intuitivelyknow the author.  

What made their competitivenessdelightfully appealing was the fact that there was no edge to it. It was meantto entertain, not to put each other down. Needless to say, Clara and Delia hadas much fun as their audience.  

If they took a liking to someone,as they seemed to have done with me, there was no limit to their affection andloyalty. Both of them defended me with an astonishing perseverance, even when Iwas in the wrong. In their eyes, I was perfect and could do no wrong. From themI learned that it was a dual responsibility to uphold that trust. It wasn'tthat I was afraid of disappointing them and tried to live up to theirexpectations, but rather, it was the most natural thing for me to believe thatI was perfect and to behave with them in an impeccable manner.  

The strangest among all the womensorcerers was my dreaming teacher, Zuleica, who never taught me anything. Shedidn't even speak to me or perhaps hadn't noticed that I existed.  

Zuleica was, just like Florinda,very beautiful; perhaps not as striking, but beautiful in a more ethereal way.She was petite: Her dark eyes with the winged eyebrows and the small, perfectnose and mouth were framed by wavy dark hair that was turning grey. Itaccentuated her aura of other-worldliness.

Hers was not an average beauty,but a sublime one, tempered by her relentless selfcontrol. She was keenly awareof the comic element of being beautiful and appealing in the eyes ofothers.  

She had learned to recognize itand used it as if it were a prize she had won. She was, therefore, totallyindifferent to anything or anyone.  

Zuleica had learned to be aventriloquist and had turned it into a superior art. According to her, wordsvoiced by moving the lips become more confusing than they really are.  

I was delighted by Zuleica'shabit of talking, as a ventriloquist, to walls, tables, china, or any otherobject in front of her, and so I kept on following her around whenever she madean appearance. She walked through the house without seeming to touch theground, without seeming to stir the air. When I asked the other sorcererswhether this was an illusion, they explained that Zuleica abhorred leavingfootprints.  

After I had met and interactedwith all the women, they explained to me the difference between the dreamersand the stalkers. They called it the two planets.  

Florinda, Carmela, Zoila, andDelia were stalkers: forceful beings with a great deal of physical energy;go-getters; inexhaustible workers; specialists on that extravagant state of awarenessthey called dreaming-awake.  

The other planet- the dreamers-was composed of the other four women: Zuleica, Nelida, Hermelinda, and Clara.They had a more ethereal quality. It was not that they were less forceful orless energetic: It was rather that their energy was simply less apparent. Theyprojected a sense of other-worldliness even when engaged in the most mundaneactivities. They were the specialists on another peculiar state of awarenessthey called 'dreaming in worlds other than this world.' I was told that thiswas the most complex state of awareness women could reach.  

When the dreamers and thestalkers worked together, the stalkers were like a protective, hard, outerlayer that hid a deep core. The dreamers were that deep core: They were like asoft matrix that cushioned the hard, outer layer.  

During those days in the witches'house, I was taken care of as if I were their most precious concern: Theycossetted and fussed over me as if I were a baby. They cooked me my favoritefoods. They made me the most elegant and well-fitting clothes I had ever had.They showered me with presents, outright silly things and valuable jewels,which they put away, waiting for the day I would wake up, they said.  

There were two more women in thesorcerers' world. They were both stalkers: two fat girls, Martha and Teresa.Both were lovely to look at and had glorious appetites to match. Not that theyfooled anyone, but they kept a cache of cookies, chocolates, and assortedcandies hidden in a secret compartment in the pantry. To my great delight, theymade me privy from the very beginning to their secret cache and encouraged meto dip freely into it, which, of course, I did.

Martha was the older of the two.She was in her mid-twenties, an exotic blend of German and Indian blood. Hercolor, if not altogether white, was pale. Her luxurious black hair was soft andwavy and framed a high-cheeked, broad face. Her slanted eyes were a brilliantgreen-blue, and her ears were small and delicate, like a cat's, soft and almostrosily transparent.  

Martha was given to long,sorrowful sighs- Germanic, she claimed- and to moody silences, a heritage ofher Indian soul. She had recently begun to take lessons on the

violin, which she would practiceat any hour of the day. Instead of anyone criticizing her or getting angry,they unanimously agreed that Martha had a great ear for music.  

Teresa was barely five feet tall,but her bulk made her seem much taller. Rather than looking Mexican, she lookedlike an Indian from India. Her flawless skin was a rich, creamy light brown.Her almond-shaped eyes, liquid and dark, were framed by long, curly lashes, soheavy they kept her lids low, giving her a dreamy, far-away expression. Hergentleness and sweet disposition made one want to protect her.  

Teresa was artistic, too. Shepainted watercolors late in the afternoon. With her easel before her, herbrushes and tray with paint and water at the ready, she would sit for hours inthe yard, waiting for the light and shadows to be just right. Then, withZen-like control and fluidity, she would dash across the page with herpaint-dipped brushes.  

The bulk of my hidden memorieshad surfaced. I was exhausted. The rhythm of Florinda's faint snoring risingand falling across the room like a distant echo was mesmerizing.  

When I opened my eyes, the firstthing I did was to call out her name. She didn't answer.  

The bed was empty. The yellowsheet, tucked tightly under the mattress, showed no evidence that anyone hadsat, let alone slept, there. The two pillows were back to their usual position-plopped against the wall- and the blanket she had used was stacked with theothers on the floor.  

Eagerly, I searched the apartmentfor a clue, some indication that she had indeed been there.  

I found nothing, not even a longgrey hair in the bathroom.  

Chapter 13

Whenever I was fully awake, Ididn't quite remember about those lost days, except that I knew, with absolutecertainty, that they were not lost. Something had happened to me during thattime; something with an inward meaning that escaped me.  

I didn't make a conscious effortto recapture all those vague memories. I simply knew they were therehalf-hidden like people one knows slightly but whose names one can't exactlyrecall.  

I have never been a good sleeper,but from that night on- since Florinda's appearance at IsidoreBaltazar'sstudio- I went to sleep at all hours just to dream.  

I simply passed out every time Ilay down, and slept for inordinately long stretches of time. I even put onweight, which unfortunately didn't go to the right places.  

Yet I never dreamt with thesorcerers.  

One afternoon I awoke abruptly toa loud clatter. IsidoreBaltazar had dropped the kettle in the sink. My headhurt, my eyes were blurred. I had the immediate memory of a terrible dream thatjust as quickly escaped recall. I was sweating heavily.  

"It's all your fault,"I yelled at him. "If you would only help me, I wouldn't be sleeping mylife away." I wanted to rant, to give in to my frustration and impatience.But it suddenly flashed through my mind that I couldn't do that because I couldno longer enjoy my complaining as I used to.

His face was radiant withpleasure, as though I had spoken my thoughts out loud. He grabbed his chair,sat astride it, and said, "You know that I cannot help you. Women have adifferent dreaming avenue. I can't even conceive what women do todream."  

"You ought to know, with somany women in your world," I retorted churlishly.  

He laughed: Nothing seemed toalter his good spirits.  

"I can't even begin toconceive what women do to dream," he went on:  

"Males have to struggleincessantly to arrange their attention in dreams: Women don't struggle, butthey do have to acquire inner discipline."

His smile was brilliant as headded, "There is one thing that might help you. Don't approach dreaming inyour usual compulsive manner. Let it come to you."  

I opened and closed my mouth,then quickly my astonishment turned to rage. My former insight forgotten, I puton my shoes and stomped out in a huff, making sure to bang the door behind me.His laughter followed me all the way to my car in the parking lot below.  

Dejected, feeling utterlyunloved, alone, and above all, sorry for myself, I drove to the beach. It wasdeserted. It was raining at the beach. There was no wind, and the rain fellvery gently, very straight.  

There was something peacefulabout the hushed sound of the lapping waves and the rain hitting the water. Itook off my shoes, tucked up my pants, and walked until I was washed clean ofmy indulgent moods.  

I knew that I was rid of thembecause I heard from the whispering, lapping waves Florinda's words, "It'sa solitary fight."  

I wasn't threatened: I simplyaccepted that I was indeed alone; and it was this acquiescence that brought methe conviction of what I had to do. And since I am not one to wait, I actedimmediately.  

After leaving a note underIsidoreBaltazar's door- I didn't want him to talk me out of it- I set out forthe witches' house. I drove all night, all the way to Tucson. I checked in at amotel, slept most of the day, then late in the afternoon set out again, takingthe same route IsidoreBaltazar had followed on our return trip.  

My sense of direction is poor,yet that route is imprinted deep within me. With a baffling assurance, I knewexactly what roads to take; where to turn. I reached the witches' house in notime at all. I didn't bother to check my watch, for I didn't want to lose thefeeling that no time had elapsed between the time I got into my car in Tucsonand my arrival at the witches' house.  

That there was no one at thehouse didn't bother me in the least. I was aware that no direct, formalinvitation had been extended to me; but I remembered clearly that Nelida hadtold me, as she hid in a drawer a small basket with the gifts they had allgiven me, that I should come back any time I wished.  

Nelida's words rang in my ears:"Day or night, this basket will pull you safely in."  

With an assurance that ordinarilyonly comes from practice, I went directly to the room Esperanza had given me.The white, flouncy hammock was ready, as if waiting for me.  

A vague uneasiness finally tookhold of me, but I wasn't nearly as scared as I should have been. Not quiterelaxed, I lowered myself in the hammock, one leg outside to rock myself backand forth.  

"To hell with myfears," I cried out and pulled my leg in and stretched out luxuriouslylike a cat until all my joints cracked.  

"Oh, you've made it backsafely," a voice said to me from the corridor.  

I didn't see her and I didn'tnecessarily recognize her voice, yet I knew it was Nelida. I waited expectantlyfor her to come in, but she didn't.  

"Your food is in thekitchen," I heard her say. Her steps moved away from my door, down thecorridor.  

I jumped up and dashed after her."Wait, wait, Nelida!" I shouted.

There was no one in the hall orin the rooms I passed on my way to the kitchen. There was no one in the wholehouse, for that matter. Yet, I was sure they were there. I heard their voices,their laughter, the clatter of dishes, of pots and pans.  

I spent the next few days in aperpetual state of anticipation, waiting for something significant tooccur.  

I couldn't imagine what wassupposed to happen, but I knew that it had to be connected with the women.  

For some unfathomable reason, thewomen didn't want to be seen. Their astoundingly furtive behavior kept me inthe corridors it all hours, prowling noiselessly, like a shadow.  

Regardless of the ingeniouslysneaky schemes I devised to surprise the women, I never caught so much as aglimpse of them. They glided in and out of their rooms, in and out of thehouse, as if in between worlds, leaving in their wake the sound of their voicesand laughter.  

Sometimes I wondered whether thewomen were indeed there; whether the sounds of footsteps, of murmurs andgiggles, were but figments of my imagination.

Whenever I was about to believeit was my imagination, I would hear one of them tinkering on the patio. Then,seized by renewed fervor, expectation, and excitement, I would run to the backof the house, only to discover that once again I had been outwitted.  

At those times I was convincedthat the women, being real witches, had some kind of a bat-like internal echolocation system that alerted them to my sounds.

My disappointment at not beingable to catch them in front of the stove always vanished at the sight of theexotic little meals they left behind for me. The deliciousness of the dishesamply compensated for the meagerness of the portions. With great gusto I atetheir wonderful food. Yet I was still hungry.

One day just before twilight, Iheard a man's voice softly calling my name from the back of the house. I jumpedout of my hammock and ran down the corridor. I was so glad to see thecaretaker, I nearly jumped on him like a dog does. Unable to contain my joy, Ikissed him on the cheeks.  

"Watch out, nibelunga."He said this in the same voice and manner of IsidoreBaltazar. I sprang back, myeyes wide with surprise. He winked at me and added, "Don't get carriedaway, because the next thing you know, you'll be taking advantage ofme."  

For an instant I didn't know whatto make of his words. But then he laughed, and patted my back reassuringly. Icompletely relaxed.  

"It's good to see you,"he said softly.  

"It's wonderful to seeyou!" I giggled self-consciously, then asked him where everybody elsewas.  

"Oh, they are around,"he said vaguely. "At the moment they are mysteriously inaccessible, butever present." Seeing my disappointment he added, "Havepatience."

"I know they arearound," I murmured. "They leave food for me." I glanced over myshoulder to ham it up and confided, "But I'm still hungry. The portionsare too little."  

According to the caretaker, thiswas the natural condition of power food: One could never get enough of it. Hesaid that he cooked his own food- rice and beans with either chunks of pork,beef, or chicken- and ate only once a day but never at the same hour.  

He took me then to his quarters.He lived in the large, cluttered room behind the kitchen, amidst the odd woodand iron sculptures, where the air, thick with the scents of jasmine andeucalyptus, hung heavy and motionless around the drawn curtains. He slept on acot, which he kept folded in the armoire when it was not in use, and ate hismeal at a small chippendale table with spindly legs.  

He confided that he, like themysterious women, disliked routines. Day or night, morning or afternoon, wasall the same to him.  

He swept the patios and raked theleaves outside the clearing whenever he felt like doing so. Whether there wereblossoms or leaves on the ground was immaterial.  

In the days that followed, I hada hellish time trying to adjust to this seemingly unstructured way of life. Outof compulsion, rather than out of any desire to be useful, I helped thecaretaker with his chores. Also, I invariably accepted his invitations to sharehis meals. His food was as delicious as his company.  

Convinced that he was more thanthe caretaker, I did my best to get him off-guard with my devious questions; auseless technique, for I never got any satisfactory answers.  

"Where do you comefrom?" I bluntly asked him one day while we were eating.  

He looked up from his plate, andas if he had been expecting an outright interrogation, he dutifully pointed tothe mountains toward the east, framed by the open window like a painting.  

"The BacateteMountains?" My voice betrayed my disbelief. "But you're not anIndian," I mumbled disconcertedly. "The way I see it, only the nagualMariano Aureliano, Delia Flores, and Genaro Flores are Indians."  

Emboldened by the surprised,expectant look on his face, I added that, in my opinion, Esperanza transcendedracial categories. I leaned across the table and in a secretive tone confidedto him what I had already told Florinda. "Esperanza wasn't born like ahuman being. She was established by an act of witchcraft. She is the verydevil."  

Leaning back in his chair, thecaretaker shrieked with joy. "And what do you have to say about Florinda?Did you know she's French? Or rather, her parents were French. They were fromthe families that came to Mexico with Maximilian and Carlota."  

"She's very beautiful,"I murmured, trying to remember when, exactly, in the eighteen hundreds the Austrianprince was sent by Napoleon to Mexico.  

"You haven't seen her whenshe's all dolled up," the caretaker gushed. "She's something else.Age means nothing to her."  

"Carmela told me that I amlike Florinda," I said in a fit of vanity and wishful thinking.  

Propelled by the laughterbubbling up inside him, the caretaker sprang up from his chair. "That'llbe the day." He said the words with no particular feeling, as though hedidn't care in the least how they would be received.  

Irritated by his remark; his lackof feeling, I glared at him with ill-concealed animosity. Then, eager to changethe subject, I asked him about the nagual Mariano Aureliano. "Whereexactly does he come from?"  

"Who knows where nagualscome from?" he muttered, moving toward the window.  

For a long while he gazed at thedistant mountains, then he turned toward me once again and said, "Somepeople say that naguals come from hell itself. I believe it. Some people saythat naguals are not even human." Again he paused, and I wondered if thelong silence was to be repeated.  

As if sensing my impatience, hecame to sit beside me and added, "If you ask me, I'd say that naguals aresuperhuman. That's the reason they know everything about human nature. Youcan't lie to a nagual. They see through you. They see through anything. Theyeven see through space to other worlds in this world, and to other worlds outof this world."  

I moved uneasily in my chair,wishing he would stop talking. I regretted engaging him in this conversation.There was no doubt in my mind that the man was insane.  

"No, I'm not insane,"he assured me, and I let out a loud shriek.

"I'm saying things thatyou've never heard before, that's all."

Feeling oddly on the defensive, Iblinked repeatedly. But my uneasiness gave me a surge of courage, and I askedhim point blank, "Why are they hiding from me?"  

"It's obvious," he shotback, then seeing that it wasn't at all obvious to me, he added, "Youshould know it. You and your kind are the crew, not me. I'm not one of them.I'm merely the caretaker. I oil the machine."  

"You're getting me moreconfused than I was," I muttered, irritated. Then a momentary flash ofinsight hit me. "Who are the crew you are referring to?"  

"All the women you met thelast time you were here. The dreamers and the stalkers. They told me that thestalkers are your kind, and you are one of them."  

He poured himself a glass ofwater and went with it to the window. He took a few sips then informed me thatthe nagual Mariano Aureliano had tried out my stalking abilities in Tucson,Arizona, when he sent me into the coffee shop to put a cockroach in my food.The caretaker turned his back to the window, looked straight into my face, andadded, "You failed."  

"I don't want to hear aboutthat nonsense," I cut him short. I had no desire to hear the rest of thestory.  

His face crinkled with mischief."But then, after your failure, you exonerated yourself by kicking andyelling at the nagual Mariano Aureliano without shame or regard.Stalkers," he stressed, "are people who have a knack for dealing withpeople."  

I opened my mouth to say that Ididn't understand a word he was saying, but quickly shut it again.  

"What has beenbaffling," he went on, "is that you are a great dreamer. If itwouldn't be for that, you'd be like Florinda- less the height and the looks, ofcourse."  

Smiling venomously, I cursed theold creep silently.  

"Do you remember how manywomen were there at the picnic?" he asked all of a sudden.  

I closed my eyes to bettervisualize the picnic. I clearly saw six women sitting on the canvas cloth,spread out under the eucalyptus trees. Esperanza wasn't there, but Carmela,Zoila, Delia, and Florinda were.  

"Who were the othertwo?" I asked, more mystified than ever.

"Ah," he murmuredappreciatively, a brilliant smile creasing his face. "Those two weredreamers from another world. You saw them clearly, but then they disappeared,and your mind didn't acknowledge their vanishing because it was simply toooutlandish."  

I nodded absentmindedly, unableto conceive that I had actually seen only four women, when I knew that therehad been six.  

The thought must have seepedthrough to him, for he said that it was only natural to have focused on thefour. "The other two are your source of energy. They are incorporeal andnot from this world."  

Lost and bewildered, all I coulddo was stare at him: I had no more questions to ask.  

"Since you are not in theplanet of the dreamers," he clarified, "your dreams are nightmares,and your transitions between dreams and reality are very unstable and dangerousto you and to the other dreamers. So Florinda has taken it upon herself tobuffer and protect you."  

I rose with such impetus my chairturned over. "I don't want to know anything else!" I cried out. Justin time, I stopped myself from blurting out that I was better off not knowingabout their mad ways and rationales.  

The caretaker took me by the handand walked with me outside, across the clearing, across the chaparral to theback of the small house.  

"I need you to help me withthe generator," he said. "It needs fixing."  

I laughed out loud and told himthat I didn't know anything about generators. Only when he opened the trap doorof a concrete encasement did I realize that the electric current for the lightsin the house was generated there. I had completely taken for granted that theelectrical lights and appliances of rural Mexico were like those I was familiarwith.  

From that day on, I tried not toask him too many questions. I felt that I was not prepared for his answers. Ourmeetings acquired the nature of a ritual in which I did my best to match theold man's exquisite usage of the Spanish language. I spent hours pouring overthe various dictionaries in my room, searching for new and often archaic wordswith which to impress him.  

One afternoon, as I was waitingfor the caretaker to bring in the food- it was the first time since Idiscovered his room that I was alone in it- I remembered the old, strangemirror. I carefully examined its spotty, misty surface.  

"You'll get trapped in themirror if you look at yourself too much," a voice behind me said.  

Expecting to see the caretaker, Iturned around, but there was no one in the room.  

In my eagerness to reach thedoor, I almost knocked over the wood and iron sculpture behind me.  

Automatically, I reached out tosteady it, but before I so much as touched it, the figure seemed to spin awayfrom me in an odd circular motion, then came to its original position with anastonishingly human sigh.  

"What's the matter?"the caretaker asked, stepping into the room. He placed a large tray on therickety table and, looking up into my ashen face, asked once more what waswrong with me.  

"Sometimes, I've the feelingthat these monstrosities are alive, watching me," I said, gesturing withmy chin toward the nearby sculpture.  

Noticing his grave, unsmilingface, I hastened to reassure him that I didn't mean monstrous in terms ofugliness but rather in terms of being big.

I took several deep, shudderingbreaths and repeated that his sculptures gave me the impression of beingalive.  

Glancing furtively around himselfand lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper, he said, "They arealive."  

I felt so uncomfortable that Ibegan to babble about the afternoon I first discovered his room; how I had beenlured to it by an eerie-sounding murmur that turned out to be the wind pushingthe curtain through a broken window.  

"Yet at the time I believedit to be a monster," I confided, giggling nervously. "An alienpresence feeding on the twilight shadows."

Chewing his lower lip, thecaretaker regarded me with keen eyes. Then his gaze drifted unfocused aroundthe room. "We better sit down to eat," he finally said. "Wedon't want to let our food get cold."

He held out the chair for me, andas soon as I was comfortably seated, he added in a vibrant tone, "You'requite right to call them presences, for they are not sculptures. They areinventions."  

He confided in a conspiratorialtone, "They were conceived from patterns glimpsed at in another world, bya great nagual."  

"By Mariano Aureliano?"I asked.  

He shook his head and said,"By a much older nagual, named Elias."  

"Why are these inventions inyour room?" I asked. "Did this great nagual make them foryou?"  

"No," he said. "Ionly take care of them."  

Rising, he reached into hispocket and pulled out a neatly folded white handkerchief and proceeded to dustthe nearby invention with it.  

"Since I'm the caretaker, itfalls upon me to take care of them. One day, with the help of all thesesorcerers you've already met, I will deliver these inventions where theybelong."  

"And where isthat?"  

"Infinity, the cosmos, thevacuum."

"How do you propose to takethem there?"  

"Through the same power thatgot them here in the first place: the power of dreamingawake."  

"If you dream like thesesorcerers dream," I began cautiously, trying hard to conceal the triumphin my voice, "then you must also be a sorcerer yourself."  

"I am, but I am not likethem."  

His candid admission confused me."What's the difference?"  

"Ah!" he exclaimedknowingly. "All the difference in the world. But I can't explain it now.If I do, you'd get even more morose and angry. Someday, though, you'll know allabout it by yourself, without anyone having to tell you."  

I could feel the wheels churningin my head as I desperately tried to come up with something else to say;another question to ask.  

"Can you tell me how thenagual Elias came to have the inventions?"

"He saw them in his dreamingand captured them," the caretaker confided.  

"Some of them are copies,done by him, of inventions he couldn't cart away.  

"Others are the real thing;inventions transported by that great nagual all the way to here."  

I didn't believe a word he said,yet I couldn't help but add, "Why did the nagual Elias bringthem?"  

"Because the inventionsthemselves asked him to."

"Why did they?"  

The caretaker dismissed myprobings with a wave of his hand and urged me to eat my food.  

His unwillingness to satisfy mycuriosity only piqued my interest. I couldn't imagine why he didn't want totalk about the contraptions when he was so good at evasive answers: He couldhave told me anything.  

The instant we finished our meal,he asked me to retrieve his cot from the armoire.  

Knowing his preference, Iunfolded it for him in front of the curtained French door.  

Sighing contentedly, he lay down,resting his head on the rectangular little pillow that was attached to one endof the cot. It was filled with dried beans and maize kernels. According to him,the pillow ensured sweet dreams.  

"I'm ready for my napnow," he said, loosening the belt on his pants. It was his polite way ofdismissing me.  

Peeved by his refusal to talkabout the inventions, I piled our plates on the tray and stormed out of theroom. His snores followed me all the way to the kitchen.  

That night I awoke to thestrumming of a guitar. Automatically, I reached for the flashlight I keptbeside my low-hanging hammock and checked my watch. It was a bit past midnight.I wrapped my blanket tightly around me and tiptoed out into the corridor thatled to the inside patio.  

On the patio, sitting on a rushchair, was a man playing a guitar. I couldn't see his face, but I knew it wasthe same man IsidororoBaltazar and I had seen and heard the first time I wasthere.  

As he had done then, the manstopped playing the moment he saw me. He got up from his chair and went insidethe house.  

As soon as I was back in my room,his plucking resumed. I was about to doze off when I heard him sing in a clear,strong voice. He sang to the wind, beckoning it to come from across miles ofsilence and emptiness.  

As if responding to his hauntinginvocation, the wind gathered force. It whistled through the chaparral. It torethe withered leaves from the trees and swept them into rustling heaps againstthe walls of the house.  

On an impulse, I opened the doorto the patio. The wind filled the room with an unspeakable sadness, not thesadness of tears but the melancholic solitariness of the desert, of dust andancient shadows. The wind circled around the room like smoke. I inhaled it withevery breath. It sat heavy in my lungs, yet the deeper I breathed, the lighterI felt.  

I went outside and, squeezingbetween the tall bushes, made my way to the back of the house. The white-washedwalls caught the moonlight and reflected it brightly onto the windswept groundof the wide clearing.  

Afraid I might be seen, I dartedfrom fruit tree to fruit tree, hiding in the dark shadows cast by the moonlightuntil I reached the two blooming orange trees outside the wall guarding thepath to the little house.  

The wind brought the sound ofgiggles and dim murmurings from across the chaparral. Daringly, I dashed alongthe path, only to lose my nerve once I reached the front door of the small,dark house.  

Quivering with excitement, Iinched my way to an open window. I recognized Delia's and Florinda's voices,but the window was too high for me to see what the women were doing.  

I listened, expecting to hearsomething profound; to be transported by some mindshattering revelation thatwould help me resolve what I had come there for- my inability to dream.  

But I only heard gossip. I becameso engrossed in their malicious insinuations that I laughed out loud severaltimes, forgetting that I was eavesdropping.

At first I thought they weregossiping about outsiders, but then I realized they were talking about thewomen dreamers, and their most insidious remarks were directed againstNelida.  

They said that she had so farbeen unable, after so many years, to break away from the grip of the world. Notonly was she vain- they claimed she spent all day in front of the mirror- butshe was lusty as well. She did everything in her power to be a sexuallydesirable woman in order to entice the nagual Mariano Aureliano. Someonepointed out, cattily, that, after all, she was the only one who couldaccommodate his enormous, intoxicating organ.

Then they talked about Clara.They called her a pompous elephant who believed that it was her duty to bestowblessings on everyone. The recipient of her attention was, at the moment, thenagualIsidoreBaltazar, and the treat was her naked body. He wasn't to have it,only to see it. Once in the morning and again once at night she would regalehim with the sight of her nakedness. She was convinced that by doing this, shewould ensure the young nagual's sexual prowess.

The third woman they talked aboutwas Zuleica. They said that she had delusions of being a saint and the VirginMary. Her so-called spirituality was nothing but craziness. Periodically shewould lose her marbles; and whenever she had one of her fits of insanity, shewould clean the house from top to bottom, even the rocks in the patio or aroundthe grounds.  

Then there was Hermelinda. Shewas described as being very sober, very proper, the paragon of middle-classvalues. As Nelida, she was incapable, after so many years, of stopping herselffrom seeking to be the perfect woman, the perfect homemaker. Although shecouldn't cook or sew or embroider or play the piano to entertain her guests,Hermelinda wanted to be known, they said in between fits of giggles, as theparagon of good femininity, just as Nelida wanted to be known as the paragon ofnaughty femininity.  

If the two of them would onlycombine their talents, one voice remarked, then they would have the perfectwoman to please the master; perfect in the kitchen and in the living room,wearing an apron or an evening dress, and perfect in bed with her legs upwhenever the master wanted it.  

When they grew silent, I ran backto the house, to my room and into my hammock, but hard as I tried, I could nolonger go back to sleep.

I felt that some kind of aprotective bubble had burst around me, obliterating my sense of delight; ofenchantment at being at the witches' house. All I could think of was that, bymy own doings this time, I was stuck there in Sonora with a bunch of crazy oldwomen who did nothing else but gossip when I could have been in Los Angeleshaving fun.  

I had come looking for advice.Instead, I was ignored; reduced to the company of a senile old man who Ibelieved to be a woman.  

By the time I sat down to eatwith the caretaker in the morning, I had driven myself into such a state ofrighteous indignation that I couldn't swallow a bite.  

"What's the matter?"the old man asked, gazing at me intently. Normally, he avoided direct eyecontact. "Aren't you hungry?"  

I glared back at him. Giving upany attempt at self-control, I unburdened all my pent-up anger andfrustration.  

As I went on complaining, I had aflash of sobriety: I told myself that I shouldn't blame the old man, that Ishould be grateful, for he had shown me nothing but kindness.  

But it was too late to stopmyself. My petty grievances had acquired a life of their own. My voice becameshriller still as I magnified and deformed the events of the past few days.With malicious satisfaction, I told him that I had eavesdropped on the women.  

"They don't want to help mein the least," I asserted with resonant authority. "All they do isgossip. They said horrible things about the women dreamers."  

"What did you hear themsay?"  

With great relish I told himeverything. I surprised myself with my extraordinary power to recollect everydetail of the women's wicked remarks.  

"Obviously, they weretalking about you," he declared the moment I finished my account. "Ina symbolic fashion, of course." He waited for the words to sink in, andbefore I could protest, he asked innocently, "Aren't you quite a bit likeall this?"  

"Like hell I am!" Iexploded. "And don't give me any psychological shit. I won't take thiskind of crap; not even from an educated man, much the less from you, youfucking peon."  

The caretaker's eyes opened widein bewilderment and his frail shoulders sagged. I felt no sympathy for him,only pity for myself. I had wasted my time telling him what I had heard.  

I was about to say what a mistakeit had been for me to make that long, arduous journey and all for nothing, whenthe caretaker looked at me with such contempt that I felt ashamed of myoutburst.  

"If you hold your temper,you'll understand that nothing these sorcerers do is just to entertainthemselves, or to impress someone; or to give way to their compulsiveness,"he said with great equanimity. "Everything they do or say has a reason- apurpose."  

He stared at me with an intensitythat made me want to move away, but I couldn't. "Don't go around thinkingthat you're here on a vacation," he stressed. "For the sorcerersyou've fallen prey to, there are no holidays."  

"What are you trying to tellme?" I demanded angrily. "Don't beat around the bush, just sayit."  

"How can anyone be moreclear?" His voice was deceptively mellow and loaded with more meaning thanI could fathom. "The witches already told you last night what you are.They used the four women of the dreamers' planet as a false front to describeto you, the eavesdropper, what you really are: a slut, with delusions ofgrandeur."  

So great was my shock, I wasmomentarily stunned. Then anger, hot as lava, shot through my whole body.  

"You miserable,insignificant piece of shit," I yelled and kicked him in the groin. Beforemy kick had landed I already had a flash image of the little old bastard on theground, wriggling with pain, except that my kick never landed anywhere but inthe air. With the speed of a prize fighter he had jumped out of the way.  

He smiled with his mouth, but hiseyes were flat and cold as he watched me puffing and groaning. "You areplaying on the nagualIsidoreBaltazar all those tricks the witches talked about.You were trained for it. Think about it. Don't just get angry."  

I opened my mouth to saysomething, but no sound emerged. It wasn't so much his words that had left mespeechless as his devastatingly indifferent, icy tone. I would have

preferred he had yelled at me,for then I would have known how to react: I would have yelled louder.  

There was no point in fightinghim. He wasn't right, I assured myself. He was simply a senile man with abitter tongue. No, I wasn't going to get mad at him, but I wasn't going to takehim seriously either.  

"I hope you're not going toweep," he warned me before I recovered from my shock.  

Despite my determination not toget mad at the senile bastard, my face grew red with anger. "Of course,I'm not," I snapped.  

Before I tried another kick, Iyelled at him that since he was only a chicken-shit servant he deserved to bebeaten for his impertinence, but the hard, relentless expression in his eyesmade me lose my momentum.  

Without the faintest change inhis courteous yet inexpressive tone, somehow he managed to convince methat Ishould apologize to him.  

"I'm sorry," I finallysaid, and truly meant it. "My bad temper and bad manners always get thebest of me."  

"I know it: They all warnedme about you," he said seriously, then added, smiling, "Eat yourfood."  

I was ill at ease all through themeal. Chewing slowly, I watched him surreptitiously.  

Although he didn't make theslightest effort to be friendly, I knew that he wasn't angry with me. I triedto comfort myself with that thought, but I didn't find it very comforting.  

I sensed that his lack of concernwasn't deliberate or studied. He wasn't punishing me. Nothing of what I hadsaid or done would have had any effect on him.

I swallowed the last bite andsaid the first thing that entered into my head with an assurance thatastonished me, "You're not the caretaker."  

He looked at me and asked,"And who do you think I am?" His face relaxed into an amusedgrin.  

His smile made me lose allcaution. A tremendous recklessness came over me. I blurted out- and naturallyas an insult- that he was a woman, that he was Esperanza.  

Relieved that I had finallygotten it off my chest, I sighed loudly and added, "That's why you're theonly one who has a mirror: You need to look convincing as either a man or awoman."  

"The Sonoran air must haveaffected you," he mused. "It's a known fact that the thin desert airaffects people in the most peculiar manner."  

He reached for my wrist and heldit in a tight grip as he added, "Or it is perhaps your nature to be meanand onerous and blurt out with an air of absolute authority anything thatenters your head?"  

Chuckling, the caretaker leanedcloser toward me, and suggested that I take a nap with him. "It'll do us alot of good. We're both onerous," he said.

"So that's it!" Iexclaimed, uncertain whether I should take offense or laugh at his suggestion."You want me to sleep with you, eh?" I added that Esperanza hadalready warned me about him.  

"Why do you object to takinga nap with me if you believe me to be Esperanza?" he asked, rubbing thenape of my neck. His hand was warm and soothing.  

"I don't object," Idefended myself feebly. "I simply hate naps. I never take a nap. I wastold that even as a baby I hated naps."

I spoke rapidly and nervously,tripping over my words, repeating myself. I wanted to get up and leave, but theslight pressure of his hand on my neck kept me pinned down to the chair.  

"I know that you'reEsperanza," I insisted rashly. "I recognize her touch: It has thesame soothing effect as yours."  

I could feel my head sway, and myeyes closed against my will.  

"So it has," he agreedgently. "It'll do you good to lie down, even if only for amoment."  

Taking my silence foracquiescence, he went to the armoire and pulled out his cot and two blankets.He gave me one.  

It was a time of endlesssurprises for me. Without knowing why, I lay down without protest.  

Through half-closed lids, Iwatched him stretch until all his joints cracked.  

He shook off his boots,unfastened his belt, then lowered himself on the cot next to me.  

Under the cover of his thincotton blanket, he wiggled out of his pants, casually dropping them on thefloor, next to his boots.  

He lifted his blanket and showedhimself to me.  

Blushing, I stared at him withwild curiosity and wonder.  

His naked body, like Esperanza's,was the antithesis of what I had taken it to be. His body was supple, hairless,and smooth. He was thin as a reed and yet muscular. And he was definitely amale and young!  

I didn't even pause to think, butholding my breath, I gingerly lifted my blanket.  

The sound of a woman's faintgiggle made me close my eyes and pretend I was asleep.  

But knowing that she wasn't goingto come into the room, I relaxed.  

Putting my arms behind my head Ibecame absorbed in an uncanny sense that the caretaker and the faint gigglescoming from the corridor had restored a balance; had renewed the magic bubbleall around me.  

What exactly I meant by this, Ididn't know, except that the more my body relaxed, the closer I was getting toan answer.