It was around eight o'clock inthe morning when we arrived at the healer's house in the outskirts of CiudadObregon.  

It was a massive old house withwhitewashed walls and a tile roof, gray with age. It had wrought-iron windowsand an arched doorway.  

The heavy door to the street waswide open.  

With the confidence of someonefamiliar with her surroundings, Delia Flores led me across the dark hall, downa long corridor, toward the back, to a sparsely furnished room with a narrowbed, a table, and several chairs.  

What was most unusual about theroom was that it had a door in each of the four walls: They were allclosed.  

"Wait here," Deliaordered me, and pointing with her chin toward the bed she said, "Take alittle nap while I get the healer. It might take me some time," she added,closing the door behind her.  

I waited for her footsteps tofade down the corridor before I inspected the most unlikely healing room I hadever seen.  

The whitewashed walls were bare.The light brown tiles of the floor shone like a mirror.  

There was no altar, no images orfigurines of saints, the Virgin, or Jesus, which I had always assumed werecustomary in healing rooms.  

I poked my head through all fourdoors. Two opened into dark corridors. The other two led to a yard enclosed bya high fence.  

As I was tiptoeing down a darkcorridor, toward another room, I heard a low, menacing snarl behind me.  

Slowly, I turned around.  

Barely two feet away there stoodan enormous, ferocious-looking black dog.

It didn't attack me but stood itsground growling, showing its fangs.  

Without directly meeting theanimal's eyes, yet not letting it out of my sight, I walked backward to thehealing room.  

The dog followed me all the wayto the door.  

I closed the door softly, righton the beast's nose, and leaned against the wall until my heartbeat was back tonormal.  

Then I lay down on the bed, andafter a few moments- without the slightest intention of doing so- I fell into adeep sleep.  

I was roused by a soft touch onmy shoulder.  

I opened my eyes and looked upinto an old woman's wrinkled pink face.  

"You're dreaming," shesaid. "And I'm part of your dream."

Automatically, I nodded inagreement. However, I wasn't convinced that I was dreaming.  

The woman was extraordinarilysmall. She wasn't a midget or a dwarf: Rather, she was the size of a child,with skinny arms and narrow, fragile-looking shoulders.  

"Are you the healer?" Iasked.  

"I'm Esperanza," shesaid. "I'm the one who brings dreams."  

Her voice was smooth andunusually low. It had a curious, exotic quality, as though Spanish- which shespoke fluently- was a language to which the muscles of her upper lip were notaccustomed.  

Gradually, the sound of her voicerose until it became a disembodied force filling the room. The sound made methink of running water in the depths of a cave.

"She's not a woman," Imumbled to myself. "She's the sound of darkness."  

"I'll remove the cause ofyour nightmares now," she said, fixing me with an imperious gaze as herfingers closed lightly around my neck:  

"I'll get them out, one byone," she promised.  

Her hands moved across my chestlike a soft wave.  

She smiled triumphantly, thenmotioned me to examine her opened palms. "See? They came out soeasily."  

She was gazing at me with anexpression of such accomplishment and wonder, I couldn't bring myself to tellher that I didn't see anything in her hands.

Certain that the healing sessionwas over, I thanked her and sat up.  

She shook her head in a gestureof reproach and gently pushed me back on the bed. "You're asleep,"she reminded me. "I'm the one who brings dreams, remember?"  

I would have loved to insist thatI was wide awake, but all I managed to do was to grin foolishly as sleep pulledme into a comforting slumber.  

Laughter and whispers crowdedaround me like shadows.  

I fought to wake myself. It tooka great effort to open my eyes and sit up, and look at the people gatheredaround the table.  

The peculiar dimness in the roommade it difficult to see them clearly. Delia was among them.  

I was about to call out her namewhen an insistent scratching sound behind me made me turn around.  

A man, precariously squatting ona high stool, was noisily shelling peanuts.

At first sight he seemed to be ayoung man, but somehow I knew him to be old. He was slight of body, with asmooth, beardless face. His smile was a mixture of cunning and innocence.  

"Want some?" heasked.  

Before I could so much as nod, mymouth dropped open.  

All I could do was stare at himas he shifted his weight to one hand and effortlessly lifted his small, wirybody into a handstand.  

From that position he threw apeanut at me, and it went straight into my gaping mouth.  

I choked on it.  

A sharp tap between my shoulderblades immediately restored my breathing.

Grateful, I turned, wondering whoamong the people, who were all standing by me now, had reacted so swiftly.  

"I'm MarianoAureliano," said the man who had tapped my back.  

He shook my hand.  

His gentle tone and the charmingformality of his gesture mitigated the fierce expression in his eyes and theseverity of his aquiline features: The upward slant of his dark brows made himlook like a bird of prey.  

His white hair and his weathered,copperish face bespoke age, but his muscular body exuded the vitality ofyouth.  

There were six women in thegroup, including Delia.  

All of them shook my hand in thatsame eloquent formality.  

They didn't tell me their names:They simply said that they were glad to meet me.  

Physically, they didn't resembleeach other, and yet there was a striking alikeness about them; a contradictoryblend of youth and age, a blend of strength and delicacy that was most bafflingto me, accustomed as I was to the roughness and directness of my maleoriented,patriarchal, German family.  

Just as with Mariano Aurelianoand the acrobat on the stool, I could not tell the women's ages. They could havebeen as much in their forties as in their sixties.  

I experienced a fleeting anxietyas the women kept staring at me.  

I had the distinct impressionthey could see inside me and were reflecting on what they saw.  

The amused, contemplative smileson their faces did little to reassure me.

Anxious to break that disturbingsilence in any way I could, I turned away from them and faced the man on thestool. I asked him if he was an acrobat.

"I'm Mr. Flores," hesaid. He did a back flip from the stool and landed in a cross-legged positionon the floor.  

"I'm not an acrobat,"he pronounced. "I'm a wizard."

There was a smile of unmistakableglee on his face as he reached into his pocket and pulled out my silk scarf;the one I had tied around the donkey's neck.

"I know who you are. You'reher husband!" I exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Delia. "Youtwo sure played a clever trick on me."

Mr. Flores didn't say a word. Hesimply gazed at me in polite silence. "I'm nobody's husband," hefinally pronounced, then cartwheeled out of the room through one of the doorsthat led to the yard.  

On an impulse, I jumped off thebed and went after him.  

Blinded momentarily by thebrightness outside, I stood for a few seconds dazed by the glare, then crossedthe yard and ran down the side of a dirt road into a recently ploughed fieldpartitioned off by tall eucalyptus trees.

It was hot. The sun bore downlike flames. The furrows shimmered in the heat like effervescent giantsnakes.  

"Mr. Flores," I calledout. There was no answer. Certain that he was hiding behind one of the trees, Icrossed the field in a run.  

"Watch those barefeet!" warned a voice coming from above me.  

Startled, I looked up, straightinto Mr. Flores' upside-down face. He was hanging from a branch, dangling fromhis legs.  

"It's dangerous and utterlyfoolish to run about without shoes," he admonished sternly, swinging backand forth like a trapeze artist:  

"This place is infested withrattlesnakes. You'd better join me up here. It's safe and cool."  

Knowing that the branches werefar too high to reach, I nonetheless held up my arms with childish trust.  

Before I realized what heintended to do, Mr. Flores had grabbed my wrists and whisked me up into thetree with no more effort than if I had been a rag doll.  

Dazzled, I sat beside him staringat the rustling leaves: They glimmered in the sunlight like slivers ofgold.  

"Do you hear what the windis telling you?" Mr. Flores asked after a long silence.  

He moved his head this way andthat so I could fully appreciate the astounding manner in which he wiggled hisears.  

"Zamurito!" I exclaimedin a whisper as memories flooded my mind.

'Zamurito', little buzzard, wasthe nickname of a childhood friend from Venezuela. Mr. Flores had the samedelicate, birdlike features, jet-black hair, and mustard-colored eyes. And mostastounding, he, like Zamurito, could wiggle his ears one at a time or bothtogether.  

I told Mr. Flores about myfriend, whom I had known since kindergarten.

In the second grade, we hadshared a desk.  

During the long midday recess,instead of eating our lunch at the school grounds, we used to sneak outside andclimb to the top of a nearby hill to eat in the shade of what we believed was thelargest mango tree in the world.  

Its lowest branches touched theground: Its highest swept the clouds. In the fruit season, we used to gorgeourselves on mangoes.  

The hilltop was our favoriteplace until the day we found the body of the school janitor hanging from a highbranch.  

We didn't dare to move or to cry:Neither of us wanted to lose face in front of the other.  

We didn't climb up the branchesthat day but tried to eat our lunch on the ground, practically under the deadman, wondering which of us would break down first.  

It was I who did.  

Zamurito had asked me in awhisper, "Have you ever thought of dying?"  

I had looked up at the hangedman. At that same instant the wind had rustled through the branches with anunfamiliar insistence.  

In the rustle I had distinctlyheard the dead man whispering to me that death was soothing.  

It was so uncanny that I got upand ran away screaming, indifferent to what Zamurito might have thought ofme.  

"The wind made thosebranches and leaves speak to you," Mr. Flores said as I finished mystory.  

His voice was soft and low. Hisgolden eyes shone with a feverish light as he went on to explain that at themoment of his death, in one instantaneous flash, the old janitor's memories,feelings, and emotions were released and absorbed by the mango tree.  

"The wind made thosebranches and leaves speak to you," Mr. Flores repeated. "For the windis yours by right."  

Dreamily, he glanced through theleaves, his eyes searching beyond the field stretching away in the sun.  

"Being a woman enables youto command the wind," he went on. "Women don't know it, but they canhave a dialogue with the wind any time."

I shook my headuncomprehendingly. "I really don't know what you're talking about," Isaid, my tone betraying my mounting unease:

"This is like a dream. If itwouldn't be that it goes on and on, I'd swear it was one of mynightmares."  

His prolonged silence annoyedme.  

I could feel my face flush withirritation. What am I doing here, sitting in a tree with a crazy old man? Ipondered.  

And at the same time I wasapprehensive that I may have offended him.

I opted for apologizing for mybluntness.  

"I realize that my wordsdon't make much sense to you," he admitted. "That's because there istoo much crust on you. It prevents you from hearing what the wind has tosay."  

"Too much crust?" Iasked, puzzled and suspicious. "Do you mean that I'm dirty?"  

"That, too," he said,and made me blush.  

He smiled and repeated that I wasenveloped by too thick a crust and that this crust couldn't be washed away withsoap and water, regardless of how many baths I took.  

"You are filled withjudgments," he explained. "They prevent you from understanding whatI'm telling you and that the wind is yours to command."  

He regarded me with narrowed,critical eyes.  

"Well?" he demandedimpatiently. Before I knew what was happening he had taken hold of my hands andin one swift, fluid motion had swung me around and gently dropped me to theground.  

I thought I saw his arms and legsstretch like rubber bands. It was a fleeting image, which I immediatelyexplained to myself as a perceptual distortion caused by the heat.  

I didn't dwell upon it, for atthat precise moment I was distracted by the sight of Delia Flores and herfriends spreading a large canvas cloth under the next tree.  

"When did you gethere?" I asked Delia, baffled that I had failed to see or hear the groupapproach.  

"We are going to have apicnic in your honor," she said.  

"Because you joined ustoday," one of the women added.  

"How did I join you?" Iasked, ill at ease.  

I had failed to see who hadspoken. I gazed from one to the other, expecting one of them to explain thestatement.  

Indifferent to my growing unease,the women busied themselves with the canvas cloth, making sure it was spreadout smoothly.  

The longer I watched them, themore concerned I became. It was all so strange to me.  

I could easily explain why I hadaccepted Delia's invitation to see a healer, but I couldn't understand at allmy subsequent actions.  

It was as if someone else hadtaken over my rational faculties and was making me stay there and react and saythings I didn't mean to.  

And now they were going to have acelebration in my honor. It was disconcerting to say the least.  

No matter how hard I thoughtabout it, I couldn't figure out what I was doing there.  

"I certainly haven't meritedany of this," I mumbled, my Germanic upbringing getting the better of me."People don't just do things for others for the hell of it."  

Only upon hearing MarianoAureliano's exuberant laughter did I realize that all of them were staring atme.  

"There's no reason to ponderso heavily what's happening to you today," he said, tapping me softly onthe shoulder. "We're having a picnic because we like to do things on thespur of the moment.  

"And since you have beenhealed by Esperanza today, my friends here like to say the picnic is in yourhonor."  

He spoke casually, almostindifferently, as if he were talking of some trifling matter.  

But his eyes said something else:They were hard and serious as though it were vital I listen to himcarefully.  

"It's a joy for my friendsto say that the picnic is in your honor," he continued. "Accept it,just as they say it, in simplicity and without premeditation."  

His eyes became soft as he gazedat the women, then he turned to me and added, "The picnic is not in yourhonor at all, I assure you.  

"And yet," he mused,"it is in your honor.  

"It's a contradiction thatwill take you quite some time to understand."  

"I didn't ask anyone to doanything for me," I said sullenly. I had become inordinately ponderous,the way I always have been when threatened:

"Delia brought me here, andI am thankful." I felt then compelled to add, "And I would like topay for any services rendered to me."

I was certain I had offendedthem, and I knew that any minute now I would be asked to leave. Other thanhurting my ego, it wouldn't have bothered me much. I was frightened, and I hadhad enough of them.  

To my surprise and annoyance,they didn't take me seriously.  

They laughed at me, and theangrier I became, the greater their mirth.

Their shiny, laughing eyes werefixed on me, as if I were an unknown organism.

Wrath made me forget my fear. Ilashed out at them, accusing them of taking me for a fool.  

I charged that Delia and herhusband- I didn't know why I insisted on pairing them together- had played adisgusting joke on me.  

"You brought me here,"I said, turning to Delia, "so you and your friends can use me as yourclown."  

The more I ranted, the more theylaughed.  

I was about to weep withself-pity, anger, and frustration when Mariano Aureliano came to stand besideme.  

He began to talk to me as if Iwere a child.  

I wanted to tell him that I couldtake care of myself, that I didn't need his sympathy, and that I was goinghome, when something in his tone and in his eyes appeased me so thoroughly thatI was certain he had hypnotized me. And yet, I knew he hadn't.  

What was so unknown anddisturbing to me was the suddenness and completeness of my change.  

What would have ordinarily takendays had happened in an instant: All my life I had indulged in brooding overevery indignity or affront- real or imagined- I had suffered. With systematicthoroughness, I would mull them over until every detail was explained to mysatisfaction.  

As I looked at Mariano Aureliano,I felt like laughing at my earlier outburst.

I could hardly remember what itwas that had infuriated me to the point of tears.  

Delia pulled me by the arm andasked me to help the other women unpack the china plates, crystal goblets, andornate silverware from the various baskets they had brought.  

The women didn't talk to me or toeach other.  

Only little sighs of pleasureescaped their lips as Mariano Aureliano opened the serving dishes: There weretamales, enchiladas, a hot chili stew, and hand-made tortillas- not flourtortillas as was customary in northern Mexico and which I didn't much care for,but corn tortillas.  

Delia handed me a plate with alittle bit of everything on it.  

I ate so greedily I was finishedbefore anyone else. "This is the most delicious food I've evertasted," I gushed, hoping for seconds.

No one offered them. To hide mydisappointment, I commented on the beauty of the antique lace trim around thecanvas cloth we were sitting on.  

"I did that," the womansitting on Mariano Aureliano's left said.

She was old-looking, withdisheveled gray hair that hid her face. In spite of the heat, she wore a longskirt, a blouse, and a sweater.  

"It's authentic Belgianlace," she explained to me in a gentle, dreamy voice. Her long slenderhands, glinting with exquisite jeweled rings, lingered lovingly on the broadtrim.  

In great detail, she told meabout her handiwork, showing me the kinds of stitches and threads she had usedto sew on the trim.  

Occasionally, I caught a fleetingglimpse of her face through all that mass of hair, but I couldn't tell what shelooked like.  

"It's authentic Belgianlace," she repeated. "It's part of my trousseau."  

She picked up a crystal goblet,took a sip of water and added, "These, too, are part of my trousseau:They're Baccarat."  

I didn't doubt that theywere.  

The lovely plates- each one wasdifferent- were of the finest porcelain.

I was wondering whether adiscreet peek under mine would pass unnoticed, when the woman sitting toMariano Aureliano's right encouraged me to do so:  

"Don't be shy. Take alook," she urged me. "You're among friends."  

Grinning, she lifted her ownplate. "Limoges," she pronounced, then lifted mine briefly and notedthat it was a Rosenthal.  

The woman had childlike, delicatefeatures. She was small, with round, thickly lashed black eyes. Her hair wasblack, except for the crown of her head, which had turned white, and was combedback into a tight little chignon.  

There was a force, an edge to herthat was quite chilling as she besieged me with direct, personalquestions.  

I didn't mind her inquisitor'stone. I was accustomed to being bombarded with questions by my father andbrothers when I went on a date or embarked on any kind of activity on myown.  

I had resented it, but it was thenormal interaction at home: Thus, I never learned how to converse. Conversationfor me was parrying verbal attacks, and defending myself at any cost.  

I was surprised when this woman'scoercive interrogation didn't immediately make me feel like defendingmyself.  

"Are you married?" thewoman asked.  

"No," I said softly butfirmly, wishing that she would change the subject.  

"Do you have a man?"she insisted.  

"No. I don't," Iretorted, beginning to feel the stirring of my old defensive self.  

"Is there a type of manyou're partial to?" she went on. "Are there any personality traitsyou prefer in a man?"  

For an instant I wondered whethershe was making fun of me, but she seemed to be genuinely interested, as did hercompanions. Their curious, anticipating faces put me at ease.  

Forgetting my belligerent natureand that these women might be old enough to be my grandmothers, I spoke to themas if they were friends my age and we were discussing men.  

"He has to be tall andhandsome," I began. "He has to have a sense of humor. He has to besensitive without being wishy-washy. He has to be intelligent without being anintellectual."  

I lowered my voice and in aconfidential tone added, "My father used to say that intellectual men areweak to the core, and traitors- all of them. I think I agree with myfather."  

"That's all you want in aman?" the woman inquired.  

"No," I hastened tosay. "Above all, the man of my dreams has to be athletic."  

"Like your father," oneof the women interjected.  

"Naturally," I saiddefensively. "My father was a great athlete; a fabulous skier andswimmer."  

"Do you get along withhim?" she asked.  

"Marvelously," Ienthused. "I adore him. Just the thought of him brings tears to myeyes."  

"Why aren't you withhim?"  

"I'm too much likehim," I explained. "There is something in me that I can't quiteunderstand or control that pulls me away."

"What about yourmother?"  

"My mother." I sighedand paused for a moment to find the best words to describe her:  

"She's very strong. She'sthe sober part in me. The part that is silent and doesn't needreinforcement."

"Are you very close to yourparents?"  

"In spirit, I am," Isaid softly. "In practice, I am a loner. I don't have manyattachments."  

Then, as if something inside mewas pushing to come out, I revealed a personality flaw that not even in my mostintrospective moments would I have admitted to myself:  

"I use people rather thannourish or cherish them," I said; then immediately made amends saying,"But I'm quite capable of feeling affection."  

I gazed from one to the otherwith a mixture of relief and disappointment: None of them seemed to attach anyimportance to my confession.  

The women went on to ask if Iwould describe myself as a courageous being or as a coward.  

"I'm a confirmedcoward," I stated. "But unfortunately my cowardice never stopsme."  

"Stops you from what?"the woman who had been questioning me inquired. Her black eyes were serious,and the wide span of her brows, like a line drawn with a piece of charcoal, wasconcentrated in a frown.  

"From doing dangerousthings," I said.  

Pleased to notice that theyseemed to be hanging on my every word, I explained that another one of myserious flaws was my great facility to get into trouble.  

"What trouble have yougotten into that you can tell us about?" she asked. Her face, which hadbeen grave all this time, broke into a brilliant, almost malicious smile.  

"How about the trouble I'min now?" I said half in jest, yet fearing that they might take my commentthe wrong way.  

To my surprise and relief theyall laughed and yelled the way rural people are wont to do when something strikesthem as daring or funny.  

"How did you end up in theUnited States?" the woman asked when they had all calmed down.  

I shrugged, not really knowingwhat to say. "I wanted to go to school," I finally mumbled. "Iwas in England first, but I didn't do much except have a good time.  

"I really don't know what Iwant to study. I think I'm in search of something, although I don't knowexactly what."  

"That brings us back to myfirst question," the woman said.  

Her thin, pert face and her darkeyes were animated and peering like an animal's. "Are you in search of aman?"  

"I suppose I am," Iadmitted, then added impatiently, "What woman isn't?  

"And why do you ask me soinsistently about it? Do you have someone in mind? Is this some kind of atest?"  

"We do have someone inmind," Delia Flores interjected. "But he's not a man." She andthe others laughed and shrieked with such abandon I could not help but giggle,too.  

"This is definitely atest," the inquisitive woman assured me as soon as everyone was quiet.  

She was silent for a moment, hereyes watchful and considering. "From what you told me, I can conclude thatyou are thoroughly middle class," she went on.  

She flung her arms wide in agesture of forced acceptance. "But then, what else can a German woman,born in the New World, be?"  

She saw the anger in my face and,with a barely suppressed grin on her lips, added, "Middle-class peoplehave middle-class dreams."  

Seeing that I was about toexplode, Mariano Aureliano explained that she was asking all these questionsbecause they were simply curious about me. Only seldom did they have visitorsand hardly ever any young ones.  

"That doesn't mean that Ihave to be insulted," I complained.

As though I hadn't said anything,Mariano Aureliano continued to make excuses for the women.  

His gentle tone and hisreassuring pat on my back melted my anger, just as it had before.  

His smile was so touchinglyangelic I didn't for a moment doubt his sincerity when bebegan to flatter me:He said that I was one of the most extraordinary, one of the most remarkablepersons they had ever met.  

I was so moved that I encouragedhim to ask anything he wanted to know about me.  

"Do you feelimportant?" he inquired.  

I nodded. "All of us arevery important to ourselves," I stated. "Yes, I think I am important,not in a general sense, but specifically, just to myself."  

At great length I talked about apositive self-image, self-worth, and how vital it was to reinforce ourimportance in order to be psychically healthy individuals.  

"And what do you think aboutwomen?" he asked. "Do you think they are more or less important thanmen?"  

"It's quite obvious that menare more important," I said. "Women don't have a choice. They have tobe less important in order for family life to roll on smooth wheels, so tospeak."  

"But is it right?"Mariano Aureliano insisted.  

"Well, of course, it'sright," I declared. "Men are inherently superior. That's why they runthe world.  

"I've been brought up by anauthoritarian father, who, although he raised me as freely as my brothers,nevertheless let me know that certain things are not so important for awoman.  

"That's why I don't knowwhat I'm doing in school or what I want in life." I looked at MarianoAureliano, then in a helpless, defeated tone added, "I suppose I'm lookingfor a man who is as sure of himself as my father."  

"She's a simpleton!"one of the women interjected.  

"No, no, she isn't,"Mariano Aureliano assured everyone. "She's just confused, and asopinionated as her father."  

"Her German father,"Mr. Flores corrected him emphatically, stressing the word German: He haddescended from the tree like a leaf, softly and without a sound. He servedhimself an immoderate amount of food.  

"How right you are,"Mariano Aureliano agreed and grinned. "Being as opinionated as her Germanfather, she's simply repeating what she has heard all her life."  

My anger, which rose and felllike some mysterious fever, was not only due to what they were saying about me,but also because they were talking about me as if I were not present.  

"She's unredeemable,"another woman said.  

"She's fine for the purposeat hand," Mariano Aureliano defended me with conviction.  

Mr. Flores backed MarianoAureliano. And the only woman who had not spoken so far said in a deep, huskyvoice that she agreed with the men; that I was fine for the purposes athand.  

She was tall and slender. Herpale-complexioned face, gaunt and severe, was crowned by braided white hair andhighlighted by large, luminous eyes.  

In spite of her worn, drabclothes, there was something innately elegant about her.  

"What are you all doing tome?" I shouted, unable to contain myself any longer. "Don't yourealize how horrible it is for me to hear you talk about me as if I were nothere?"  

Mariano Aureliano fixed hisfierce eyes on me. "You are not here," he said in a tone that wasdevoid of all feeling. "At least not yet.

"And most important, youdon't count. Not now or ever."  

I almost fainted with wrath. Noone had ever spoken to me so harshly and with such indifference to my feelings."I puke and piss and shit on all of you, goddamned, cocksuckingfarts!" I yelled.  

"My God!A German hick!"Mariano Aureliano exclaimed, and they all laughed.  

I was about to jump up and stompaway when Mariano Aureliano tapped me repeatedly on my back.  

"There, there," hemurmured as if burping a baby.  

And as before, instead ofresenting being treated like a child, my anger vanished. I felt light andhappy.  

Shaking my headuncomprehendingly, I looked at them and giggled. "I learned to speakSpanish," I said, "in the streets of Caracas with the riffraff. I cancuss horribly."  

"Didn't you just love thesweet tamales?" Delia asked, closing her eyes in delicateappreciation.  

Her question seemed to be apassword: The interrogation ended.  

"Of course she did!"Mr. Flores responded for me. "She only wishes she had been served more.She has an insatiable appetite."  

He came to sit beside me."Mariano Aureliano outdid himself and cooked a delight."  

"You mean he cooked thefood?" I asked in disbelief. "He has all these women, and hecooks?"  

Mortified by how my words mightbe interpreted, I hastened to apologize. I explained that it surprised me to noend that a Mexican male would cook at home when there were women.  

Their laughter made me realizethat I hadn't meant to say that either.  

"Especially if the women arehis women. Isn't that what you meant?" Mr. Flores asked, his wordsinterspersed by everybody's laughter.  

"You're quite right,"he continued. "They are Mariano's women: Or to be more precise, Marianobelongs to them."  

He slapped his knee gleefully,then turned to the tallest of the women- the one who had only spoken once- andsaid, "Why don't you tell her about us."  

"Obviously, Mr. Aurelianodoesn't have that many wives," I began, still mortified by my gaffe.  

"Why not?" the womanretorted, and everyone laughed again. It was a joyful, youthful laughter, yetit didn't put me at ease.  

"All of us here are boundtogether by our struggle, by our deep affection for one another, and by therealization that without one another nothing is possible," she said.  

"You aren't part of areligious group, are you?" I asked in a voice that betrayed my growingapprehension. "You don't belong to some kind of a commune, doyou?"  

"We belong to power,"the woman replied. "My companions and I are the inheritors of an ancienttradition. We are part of a myth."  

I didn't understand what she wassaying.  

I glanced uneasily at the others:Their eyes were fixed on me. They were watching me with a mixture ofexpectation and amusement.  

I shifted my attention back tothe tall woman. She, too, was observing me with that same bemused expression.Her eyes were so shiny they sparkled.  

She leaned over her crystalgoblet and daintily sipped her water.  

"We are essentiallydreamers," she explained softly. "We are all dreaming now, and, bythe fact that you were brought to us, you are also dreaming with us."  

She said this so smoothly that Ireally didn't realize what she had said.

"You mean I am sleeping andhaving a dream with you?" I asked in mock incredulity. I bit my lip tosuppress the laughter bubbling up within me.

"That's not exactly whatyou're doing, but it's close enough," she admitted.  

Unperturbed by my nervousgiggles, she went on to explain that what was happening to me was more like anextraordinary dream where all of them were helping me by dreaming mydream.  

"But that's idio--," Istarted to say, but she silenced me with a wave of her hand.  

"We are all dreaming thesame dream," she assured me.  

She seemed to be transported by ajoy I was at a loss to understand.  

"What about the deliciousfood I just ate?" I asked, looking for the chili sauce that had dribbledon my blouse.  

I showed her the spots."That can't be a dream. I ate that food!" I insisted in a loud,agitated tone. "I did! I ate it myself."  

She regarded me with a coolcomposure, as though she had been expecting just such an outburst. She askedequably, "But what about Mr. Flores lifting you up to the top of the eucalyptustree?"  

I was on the verge of telling herthat he hadn't lifted me to the top of the tree but only to a branch when shewhispered, "Have you thought about that?"  

"No. I haven't," I saidsnappishly.  

"Of course, youhaven't," she agreed, nodding her head knowingly as if she were aware thatI had that instant remembered that even the lowest branch of any of the treesaround us was impossible to reach from the ground.  

She said then that the reason Ihadn't thought about it was because in dreams we are not rational. "Indreams we can only act," she stressed.

"Wait a minute," Iinterrupted her. "I may be a little dizzy, I admit. After all, you andyour friends are the strangest people I have ever met.  

"But I am as awake as I canbe." Seeing that she was laughing at me, I yelled, "This is not adream!"  

With an imperceptible nod of herhead she motioned to Mr. Flores, who in one swift movement reached for my handand propelled himself, with me in tow, to a branch of the nearest eucalyptustree.  

We sat there for an instant, andbefore I could say anything, he pulled me back to the ground, to the same spotwhere we had been sitting.  

"Do you see what Imean?" the tall woman asked.  

"No, I don't," Iscreamed, knowing that I had had a hallucination.  

My fear turned to rage, and I letout a stream of the foulest imprecations.

My rage spent, I was engulfed bya wave of self-pity, and I began to weep. "What have you people done tome?" I asked in between sobs. "Have you put something in the food? Inthe water?"

"We have done nothing of thesort," the tall woman said kindly. You don't need anything..."  

I could barely hear her. My tearswere like some dark, gauzy veil: They blurred her face and also her words.  

"Hold on," I heard hersay, although I could no longer see her or her companions. "Hold on, don'twake up yet."  

There was something so compellingabout her tone, I knew that my very life depended on seeing her again.  

With some unknown and totallyunexpected force, I broke through the veil of my tears.  

I heard a soft clapping sound,and then I saw them. They were smiling, and their eyes shone so intensely theirpupils seemed to be lit by some inner fire.

I apologized first to the womenand then to the two men for my silly outburst; but they wouldn't hear ofit.  

They said that I had performedexceptionally well.  

"We are the living parts ofa myth," Mariano Aureliano said.  

He puckered his lips, and blewinto the air. "I will blow you to the the person who now holds the myth inhis hands. He will help you clarify all this."  

"And who might he be?"I asked flippantly.  

I was going to ask whether hewould be as opinionated as my father, but I was distracted by MarianoAureliano.  

He was still blowing into theair. His white hair stood on end: His cheeks were red and distended.  

As if in answer to his effort, asoft breeze began to rustle through the eucalyptus trees.  

He nodded, apparently aware of myunspoken thought and confusion.  

Gently, he turned me until Ifaced the Bacatete Mountains.  

The breeze turned into a wind; awind so harsh and cold it hurt to breathe.

With a seemingly boneless,uncoiling movement, the tall woman rose, grabbed my hand, and pulled me withher across the ploughed furrows.  

We came to a sudden halt in themiddle of the field.  

I could have sworn that with heroutstretched arms she was luring the spiral of dust and dead leaves spinning inthe distance.  

"In dreams, everything ispossible," she whispered.  

Laughing, I opened my arms tobeckon the wind.  

Dust and leaves danced around uswith such force that everything blurred before my eyes.  

The tall woman was suddenly faraway. Her body seemed to be dissolving in a reddish light until it completelyvanished from my field of vision.  

And then blackness filled myhead.