The Night the Candles Flickered
The air in the old hacienda smelled of jasmine and stale cigar smoke, the kind that clings to stone walls after a long night of celebrations. I stood near the marble fountain, the water whispering over cracked tiles, and watched the candlelight dance on the faces of strangers. A violinist in a black tuxedo drew his bow across the strings, a mournful note that lingered like a sigh. My hands were cold, the cuff of my shirt slick with sweat I didn’t feel.
Someone brushed past me, a man in a dark suit, his shoes scuffing the polished floor. He whispered something into the ear of a woman in a white lace dress, and she turned, her eyes meeting mine for a heartbeat before she slipped away. I thought about the way my own mother used to straighten her hair before going out, the way the light would catch the tiny scar on her collarbone and make it look like a badge.
“Efraín,” a voice called, and I turned to see Celia standing at the edge of the garden, her dark hair pinned back with a pearl comb. She wore a silk shawl that fell over her shoulders, the color of midnight, and her eyes were bright, almost too bright, as if they were trying to hold back a storm.
She smiled, the kind of smile that made the room feel smaller, more intimate. “You look nervous,” she said, her voice low and warm, the way my mother’s used to sound when she was trying to reassure me after a bad grade.
“I’m not,” I muttered, though my throat felt tight. “It’s just… everything.”
She reached out, her fingers brushing my arm, and I felt a shock that wasn’t from the cold.
Why Everyone Said I Was Insane
Back in the town of San Miguel, the gossip traveled faster than the wind that rattled the tin roofs. My aunt, Rosa, had a habit of standing in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips, watching me with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval.
“That woman has you bewitched,” she said, shaking her head as she sliced onions for the soup.
My cousin, Marco, was leaning against the porch railing, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “What you want is a mother, not a wife,” he spat, blowing ash onto the cracked concrete.
My father, a man whose voice could fill a room even when he whispered, stood at the edge of the yard, his hands clasped behind his back. “She’ll use you and then abandon you,” he declared, his eyes dark as the night sky we shared.
I remember the weight of their words settling on my shoulders like a heavy blanket. I could feel the eyes of the whole town—neighbors, shopkeepers, the priest—watching me, judging me, whispering that I was greedy, crazy, dependent.
But I held on. I fought for her. I stood up for her against everyone. When the town’s council held a meeting about the upcoming wedding, I walked in, my heart thudding like a drum, and said, “She’s my wife. That’s all that matters.” The room fell silent, then erupted in murmurs.
Even when my mother, who had always been my anchor, sat across from me at the kitchen table, her hands trembling over the edge, I could see the same birthmark she carried on her collarbone—a dark, round spot, uneven at the edges. It was a scar she never talked about, a secret she kept hidden beneath layers of silk and prayer.
The Ceremony
The wedding was a blur of white arrangements and candlelight that seemed to burn brighter than the sun. Musicians played as if the celebration were for powerful people, their violins and trumpets echoing through the vaulted ceilings. Too many men dressed in black, their faces hidden behind earpieces, stood like statues, their eyes scanning the crowd. Security swarmed the perimeter, a sea of uniforms and stern faces.
I noticed it, yes. The way the guards lingered near the entrance, the way the men in black whispered into their radios, the way the chandelier above us swayed ever so slightly, as if the building itself were holding its breath.
But I was blinded by what I felt. Celia walked down the aisle, her shawl flowing behind her like a river of night. When she reached me, she placed a single white rose on my chest, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the two of us, the scent of roses mixing with the faint smell of dust.
“I love you, Efraín,” she whispered, and her breath was warm against my ear.
“I love you too,” I replied, my voice cracking, the words spilling out like a dam breaking.
The priest, a man with a silver cross hanging around his neck, blessed us, his voice reverberating through the stone walls. The crowd clapped, the sound reverberating off the arches, a cacophony of approval that felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.
Alone in the Bedroom
Later that night, when the candles had burned low and the musicians had packed away their instruments, we were finally alone. The bedroom was huge, its windows overlooking the moonlit courtyard, the curtains drawn back to reveal a sky full of stars.
