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Zita by Arturo B. Rotor
Zita by Arturo B. Rotor
by Arturo B. Rotor
Those were days of surprises for Zita. Box after box came in
Turong's sailboat and each time they contained things that took
the words from her lips. Silk as sheer and perishable as gossamer,
or heavy and shiny and tinted like the sunset sky; slippers with
bright stones which twinkled with the least movement of her feet;
a necklace of green, flat, polished stone, whose feel against her
throat sent a curious choking sensation there; perfume that she
must touch her lips with. If only there would always be such things
in Turong's sailboat, and none of those horrid blue envelopes that
he always brought. And yet--the Virgin have pity on her selfish
soul--suppose one day Turong brought not only those letters but
the writer as well? She shuddered, not because she feared it but because she knew it would be.
"Why are these dresses so tight fitting?" Her father wanted to know.
"In society, women use clothes to reveal, not to hide." Was that a sneer or a smile in his eyes?
The gown showed her arms and shoulders and she had never known how round and fair they
were, how they could express so many things.
"Why do these dresses have such bright colors?"
"Because the peacock has bright feathers."
"They paint their lips…"
"So that they can smile when they do not want to."
"And their eyelashes are long."
"To hide deception."
He was not pleased like her father; she saw it, he had turned his face toward the window. And
as she came nearer, swaying like a lily atop its stalk she heard the harsh, muttered words:
"One would think she'd feel shy or uncomfortable, but no… oh no… not a bit… all alike… comes
naturally."
There were books to read; pictures, names to learn; lessons in everything; how to polish the nails,
how to use a fan, even how to walk. How did these days come, how did they go? What does one
do when one is so happy, so breathless? Sometimes they were a memory, sometimes a dream.
"Look, Zita, a society girl does not smile so openly; her eyes don't seek one's so--that reveals
your true feelings."
"But if I am glad and happy and I want to show it?"
"Don't. If you must show it by smiling, let your eyes be mocking; if you would invite with your
eyes, repulse with your lips."
That was a memory.
She was in a great drawing room whose floor was so polished it reflected the myriad red and
green and blue fights above, the arches of flowers and ribbons and streamers. All the great
names of the capital were there, stately ladies in wonderful gowns who walked so, waved their
fans so, who said one thing with their eyes and another with their lips. And she was among them
and every young and good-looking man wanted to dance with her. They were all so clever and
charming but she answered: "Please, I am tired." For beyond them she had seen him alone, he
whose eyes were dark and brooding and disapproving and she was waiting for him to take her.
That was a dream. Sometimes though, she could not tell so easily which was the dream and
which the memory.
If only those letters would not bother him now, he might be happy and at peace. True he never
answered them, but every time Turong brought him one, he would still become thoughtful and
distracted. Like that time he was teaching her a dance, a Spanish dance, he said, and had told
her to dress accordingly. Her heavy hair hung in a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened
to come loose but never did; its dark, deep shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a
rose can be, how like velvet its petals. Her earrings--two circlets of precious stones, red like the
pigeon's blood--almost touched her shoulders. The heavy Spanish shawl gave her the most
trouble--she had nothing to help her but some pictures and magazines--she could not put it on
just as she wanted. Like this, it revealed her shoulder too much; that way, it hampered the free
movement of the legs. But she had done her best; for hours she had stood before her mirror and
for hours it had told her that she was beautiful, that red lips and tragic eyes were becoming to
her.
She'd never forget that look on his face when she came out. It was not surprise, joy, admiration.
It was as if he saw somebody there whom he was expecting, for whom he had waited, prayed.
"Zita!" It was a cry of recognition.
She blushed even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and taught her to step this way,
glide so, turnabout; she looked half questioningly at her father for disapproval, but she saw that
there was nothing there but admiration too. Mr. Reteche seemed so serious and so intent that
she should learn quickly; but he did not deceive her, for once she happened to lean close and
she felt how wildly his heart was beating. It frightened her and she drew away, but when she
saw how unconcerned he seemed, as if he did not even know that she was in his arms, she smiled
knowingly and drew close again. Dreamily she closed her eyes and dimly wondered if his were
shut too, whether he was thinking the same thoughts, breathing the same prayer.
Turong came up and after his respectful "Good evening" he handed an envelope to the school
teacher. It was large and blue and had a gold design in one comer; the handwriting was broad,
angular, sweeping.
"Thank you, Turong." His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one who has just awakened.
With one movement he tore the unopened envelope slowly, unconsciously, it seemed to her, to
pieces.
"I thought I had forgotten," he murmured dully.
That changed the whole evening. His eyes lost their sparkle, his gaze wandered from time to
time. Something powerful and dark had come between them, something which shut out the
light, brought in a chill. The tears came to her eyes for she felt utterly powerless. When her sight
cleared she saw that he was sitting down and trying to piece the letter together.
"Why do you tear up a letter if you must put it together again?" rebelliously.
He looked at her kindly. "Someday, Zita, you will do it too, and then you will understand."
One day Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at once
that he came from where the teacher came--his clothes, his features, his politeness--and that he
had come for the teacher. This one did not speak their dialect, and as he was led through the
dusty, crooked streets, he kept forever wiping his face, gazing at the wobbly, thatched huts and
muttering short, vehement phrases to himself. Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and
she knew what he had come for. She must have been as pale as her teacher, as shaken, as
rebellious. And yet the stranger was so cordial; there was nothing but gladness in his greeting,
gladness at meeting an old friend. How strong he was; even at that moment he did not forget
himself, but turned to his class and dismissed them for the day.
The door was thick and she did not dare lean against the jamb too much, so sometimes their
voices floated away before they reached her.
"…like children… making yourselves… so unhappy."
"…happiness? Her idea of happiness…"
Mr. Reteche's voice was more low-pitched, hoarse, so that it didn't carry at all. She shuddered
as he laughed, it was that way when he first came.
"She's been… did not mean… understand."
"…learning to forget…"
There were periods when they both became excited and talked fast and hard; she heard
somebody's restless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily.
"I never realized what she meant to me until I began trying to seek from others what she would
not give me."
She knew what was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:
"Tomorrow?"
She fled; she could not wait for the answer.
He did not sleep that night, she knew he did not, she told herself fiercely. And it was not only his
preparations that kept him awake, she knew it, she knew it. With the first flicker of light she ran
to her mirror. She must not show her feeling, it was not in good form, she must manage
somehow. If her lips quivered, her eyes must smile, if in her eyes there were tears… She heard
her father go out, but she did not go; although she knew his purpose, she had more important
things to do. Little boys came up to the house and she wiped away their tears and told them that
he was coming back, coming back, soon, soon.
The minutes flew, she was almost done now; her lips were red and her eyebrows penciled; the
crimson shawl thrown over her shoulders just right. Everything must be like that day he had first
seen her in a Spanish dress. Still he did not come, he must be bidding farewell now to Father
Cesareo; now he was in Doña Ramona's house; now he was shaking the barber's hand. He would
soon be through and come to her house. She glanced at the mirror and decided that her lips
were not red enough; she put on more color. The rose in her hair had too long a stem; she tried
to trim it with her fingers and a thorn dug deeply into her flesh.
Who knows? Perhaps they would soon meet again in the city; she wondered if she could not
wheedle her father into going earlier. But she must know now what were the words he had
wanted to whisper that night under the dama de noche, what he had wanted to say that day he
held her in his arms; other things, questions whose answers she knew. She smiled. How well she
knew them!
The big house was silent as death; the little village seemed deserted, everybody had gone to the
seashore. Again she looked at the mirror. She was too pale; she must put on more rouge. She
tried to keep from counting the minutes, the seconds, from getting up and pacing. But she was
getting chilly and she must do it to keep warm.
The steps creaked. She bit her lips to stifle a wild cry there. The door opened.
"Turong!"
"Mr. Reteche bade me give you this. He said you would understand."
In one bound she had reached the open window. But dimly, for the sun was too bright, or was
her sight failing? --she saw a blur of white moving out to sea, then disappearing behind a point
of land so that she could no longer follow it; and then, clearly against a horizon suddenly drawn
out of perspective, "Mr. Reteche," tall, lean, brooding, looking at her with eyes that told her
somebody had hurt him. It was like that when he first came, and now he was gone. The tears
came freely now. What matter, what matter? There was nobody to see and criticize her breeding.
They came down unchecked and when she tried to brush them off with her hand, the color came
away too from her cheeks, leaving them bloodless, cold. Sometimes they got into her mouth and
they tasted bitter.
Her hands worked convulsively; there was a sound of tearing paper, once, twice. She became
suddenly aware of what she had done when she looked at the pieces, wet and brightly stained
with uneven streaks of red. Slowly, painfully, she tried to put the pieces together and as she did
so a sob escaped deep from her breast--a great understanding had come to her.