The lost day - short story - Latin America: Private Eyes & Time Travelers

"Is that the change?" I asked him.

"Yes," he answered, "they seem real enough. Quarters. I don't dare ask their value, but I hope they buy us another good meal."

Strains of bugles and drums came to our ears and we saw a crier rapidly ascend to the platform of the gallows, with a scroll in hand. He began to shout: "On orders of His Excellency Viceroy Don Gaspar de la Cerda Sandoval Silva y Mendoza, let the inhabitants of this city be informed that the work on the Palace must be finished this year. To those ends each corporation must send donations and any hands they might accord to the project. Understand that he who does not comply will pay some species of fine.

"The same wishes it to be known that next week a ship will disembark from Port Acapulco to Peru, bearing greetings from His Excellency the Viceroy to his friend the Viceroy of Peru Don Melchor de Navarra y Rocaful Duke of Palata. Those who wish to join this voyage should sign on at the contract houses today. Given by His Excellency and signed in the Palace on this day, April 3rd in the year 1695."

The crier finished and Silva and I stared at each other, stupefied. "There's no room for doubt, it's a dream," I agreed. "Gaspar and Melchor ... the viceroys. All we're missing is Baltazar ...," I laughed, wanting to joke, but the laugh rang false. "Moreover, April 3 ... in 1695. All of this is absurd. It seems like a bad story taken from Alice in Wonderland. Doesn't it seem like that? Aren't you listening to me?" I asked Silva, who seemed pensive and absorbed.

"Yes, but shut up. Wait a minute. I was thinking ... If this isn't a dream and it's real, we should at all costs search for a means that would permit us to leave this place. And if we're in the year 1695, there exist two people that might help us ... The most enlightened intellectuals of their century ... Come on, let's see."

My friend, in his free time, was what some might call a cultured man. He loved to read about times past, and because of this I was not surprised to hear him ask about Don Carlos de Siguenza y Gongora ... Unfortunately no one could give us news of his whereabouts. And it was already late afternoon when Silva asked about the San Jeronimo Convent ... The name sounded familiar, but I didn't know why. The convent was located a few blocks away, and we walked them in silence, barely noticing the marvelous architecture, nor the placid, clear afternoon light which displayed the colonial city's finery. There were trees and water in profusion everywhere. Through the streets ran small irrigation channels and canals that carried water to the gardens of the mansions, which were enclosed by fences and richly carved wooden gates.

A bit later we arrived at one of those gates, underneath a stone arch, above which the white statue of Saint Jeronimo marked the convent named for him. And, when the door opened, after ringing the bell, I was not too surprised to hear my companion ask:

"We wish to see Sor Juana. Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz. It is an urgent affair." The portly mother appeared disturbed and murmured something to the effect that the sister Juana no longer received visitors. She had been sick and had refused guests for some time.