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

Jorge Martinez Villasenor

TELLING THIS STORY, I KNOW, WILL CAUSE many an open smile, others will inspect me with offended eyes, and most will think I have sadly lost my mind.

One afternoon, we were cooped up in the emergency room of this city's hospital located opposite the Alameda Park, battling the strange illness of a young bricklayer, who, while remodeling an ancient cell in the San Jeronimo convent, had fallen faint and not come around, showing symptoms of delirium, anguish, and intense fever. My companion, Dr. Silva, invited me to join him for a beer or two. That was in the first days of April and the heat was intolerable, so I agreed without hesitation.

We drank in the corner brewery, undisturbed by the gazes of other patrons who noted our white uniforms with disapproval. A little later we left. The air had cooled with dusk, so we continued walking on the sidewalk keeping the Alameda to our left; already the dark and mysterious hour approached. We turned onto the street to our right, towards the apartment we used as a lounge. And we had taken only a few steps inside when the entire floor seemed to vibrate and the lights went out completely ...

The possibility of an earthquake prompted us to retrace our steps to the Alameda, where we would be safe, just in case. While we were walking I began to feel a strange sensation; the apartment appeared to have changed, and at the same time, the ordinary sounds of the grand city had ceased. The prevailing silence amplified the noise of our footsteps, which carried an unspeakable sinisterness. We breathed a sigh of relief when we glimpsed a light at the corner. But, oddly enough, it was a torch that bobbed away from us ... Suddenly the moon began to emerge from behind the clouds. It was a full moon, and what it illuminated forced us to doubt our senses ...

Everything around us had changed. In a strange and unsettling way, the Alameda trees seemed different. The streets were utterly deserted, and on crossing towards the Alameda, we saw that it was cobbled. At the same time, all of the buildings so familiar to our eyes had vanished ... Now, in the middle of amply open fields, massive colonial constructions loomed with iron gates and quarry stones as their principal ornaments.

"It can't be!" I exclaimed. "What's happening?"

"It must be a dream," responded Silva. "And those beers must be playing a dirty trick on us."

"Then we're sharing the dream, because I feel it too," I said.

Disconcerted, we approached the Alameda, fearful of taking one more step. Looking around that strange and mysterious city, it seemed in repose yet threatening beneath the light of the full moon. Seated under an immense oak, we fell gradually into slumber. Sunlight and street sounds woke us. Even on the Alameda, our dream continued. Noisy coaches, gentlemen mounted on spirited steeds sporting long swords, capes, and feathered caps. Town criers, peasants, water vendors, all circulated through these streets amidst an uproar bursting with vivacity. We rubbed our eyes to wake ourselves up, but all continued as before.

"What's happening to us?" I asked.

My friend, who was always a bit philosophical, responded: "It's too real to be a dream. A few unsettling possibilities remain. We're either traveling through the past, or we're dead. If we're dead there's nothing we can do about it. But if we're traveling in the past there are two possibilities. We may have slipped through a crack in time, one hundred years back, or we're traveling only in our minds. I hope it's the last! Because if it's the first option, no one has ever returned to tell about it ..."

Hearts oppressed with dry, irrational terror, we forced ourselves to struggle to our feet and walked towards the east with the bustling townspeople, who shot us looks of bewilderment. Realizing they found our clothing odd, we took off our laboratory coats, and, opening the collars of our shirts, we looked uncannily similar to those street vendors.

"Tuesday, April 2nd," said my companion.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"It will be a memorable date for those who know us. Two young doctors disappeared on April 2nd and, just like in the stories, were never seen again."

"Don't joke about such things. We've got to figure out what's happening to us and where we are."

"I don't think that will help us much, but let's go."

And so we arrived at the heart of our city. The Zocalo! How different everything was! How strange! The great plaza known to us had disappeared. In its place had sprung various constructions and cheap grocery stores. It was a huge marketplace in which, amid hollering and confusion, everything imaginable was sold. We continued walking and a little farther down found a small square from which we could see what used to be the cathedral: now it was an amorphous monster of stone, without its graceful towers nor its carved facade. The Palace was squatter and seemed to have suffered a great fire. Beyond its forest of scaffolding, one could see part of its dilapidated walls covered in soot. To the right, dominating the small square, gallows hanging from a tall platform made us shudder; more to the right, a ditch full of vegetation and canoes flowed towards the south side of the plaza, which served as a wharf and a loading dock for goods. The animation was prodigious, and, in spite of the early hour, one could see gentlemen with great curled wigs accompanied by ladies in huge hoop skirts and parasols leaving the cathedral to board their swift coaches. All was new, evocative, and strange. The sensation of dreaming persisted. Nothing about it could be real. Even so, the hunger that began to make our stomachs suffer was certainly genuine. And Silva soon solved the problem. Gold has always been a universal language, and we showed a golden ring that Silva wore on his finger to the food vender. Soon we were devouring a roast chicken and drinking a refreshing beverage, in the depths of which floated black seeds with a furry white coating. Silva deposited some coins in his pocket.

"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.

Silva domineeringly clarified: "We come on important business for His Excellency the Viceroy of Peru, Don Melchor de Navarra." Those were the magic words that ushered us across the threshold and into the reception room, across from which, through a barred window, one could see the cloister's grand arcades surrounding the garden. An infinitude of cheerful birds came to drink at musical fountains emptying into granite vessels.

There was an atmosphere of peace, tranquility, and a transcendent mysticism there, and the arrival of Sister Juana, accompanied by two nuns, almost made me shudder because I had not sensed her entrance. But, how different from the portraits was the woman that we saw before us! Now I saw her as slender, ethereal, almost fragile, only the light of her eyes reflecting an energy not of this world, while her body seemed to carry with difficulty the weight of life.

After the requisite greetings, Sor Juana whispered, "It pleases me greatly to be brought news from his Excellency, my good friend, the Duke of Palata. I remember him from when he was Viceroy here and it makes me glad to know that he has not forgotten me. Has he at least sent a written message?"

Silva did not appear unnerved. Without doubt he had rehearsed what he might be required to say. "Lamentably, and I can barely say it, we were assaulted before arriving at the city and we were robbed of everything we had ... They left us with nothing more than the clothing we have on."

The faces of the nuns visibly softened. Surely muggings were the order of the day in those times. On hearing this, Sor Juana demanded: "Mother, let them bring some victuals to these poor travelers and something cool to drink. Forgive me for not having offered before."

Silva excused her and commenced with the preliminaries of the conversation, until my friend arrived at the subject that concerned him. "Mother, in the regions of Peru a strange event occurred. An event so strange that I beg you to employ all your faith in believing it to be true. Two men, without knowing how, suddenly found themselves in that country and in that time. But they are from another time. From another time in the future. Do you understand me?"

Upon hearing him, the spiritual lady briefly shuddered and asked, "And, what does he wish of me, the Viceroy?"

"That her excellency, with her great wisdom recognized by all of the sages of your era, might advise him on this matter. Something about how he might return those exiles to their time and their home."

The mother remained pensive for several moments, and her silence intensified when the strains of songbirds wafted in from the garden.

Sor Juana's eyes shone even more than words can describe when her lips formed the words: "The future! To know what will come to pass! If one will be recognized by future generations!"

Silva intervened. "Of course.... don't you know it ..."

"No. I don't want to know. It is a sin to wish to know the future. ... and one of the greatest gifts that the Lord has given his children is ignorance of it. Imagine how life would be if a person knew what was going to happen? No, I don't wish to know."

The arrival of the refreshments interrupted the dialogue, and refusing the food, Silva avidly drank from his glass, which was filled again. I drank from mine little by little.

The conversation began anew, in the same vein.

"When did this event happen?" asked Sor Juana.

"Not long ago," responded Silva. "Two men were walking at night: within a few steps they found themselves in another epoch, in another century. But, strangely, it was the same day in both, the same date."

"Curious coincidence," she agreed. "I don't know if you know.... Several years ago a similar event occurred here, but only vaguely similar. Here the time did not change, only the place.... More than one hundred years ago, in 1593, a soldier appeared who had been on guard in the Philippines only the night before. He never knew how he arrived here, and they had to return him to his land on the first ship to China."

Sor Juana continued her tale: "And the night.... All poets have sung to night.... To its magic, and its power, and its mystery. Our great poet San Juan de la Cruz suffered a similar curse.... One night saw him transported to a strange place, which he never managed to identify, and never knew if it was hell or some strange interchange of time and place.... Very few people know this, but his experience augmented the sanctity of his life and inspired him to write his book, Canticos espirituales, in which, through this verse, he explains what happened to him:

In darkness and secure

Masked by the secret scale

O, happy venture

In darkness and imprisoned

My house already calm ...(*)

Silva passed his hand over his forehead nervously, appearing disturbed. That was certainly not what he had hoped; Sor Juana seemed to digress, and if the most celebrated mind of her century could not impart some solution, what could be hoped for us?

"Mother, I don't understand you," whispered Silva.

"But it is very clear," she asserted. "What follows night? Day. And day? Night. What follows spring? Summer. And so on until spring arrives again. The moon revolves around the earth and each special date presents its face. It will not return until that date arrives again. A door that opens to a room above, must have a staircase, and the same one will permit going up or down. But if we open the door that has no staircase, we cannot go up or down, as the case may require. Time is Cyclical. If one returns to the same place at the same time it is possible that time will open the masked secret scale."

My friend's eyes shone. Now he understood. And impetuously, on seeing the twilight that bathed the hedge in the garden, bid her goodbye, exclaiming, "Oh, yes, it's true! It's the last hope. Mother Juana, your wisdom is without doubt greater than all praises that have been made of you...."

"And even so," she said wistfully, "your knowledge is greater than mine. It would be possible to ask you so much, so much, yet not arrive at any knowledge whatsoever. Go! I am weary. And may you soon find your house already calm."

My last vision of Sor Juana was that of a comprehending smile illuminated by a ray of light, which the setting sun had reflected from the glass of water my companion had left.

We departed with a strange urgency.

"Now what happens?" I asked.

"Have you not understood?" Silva asked me. "We must be in the same place, on the corner of the Alameda, at the same time. That's the secret disguised ladder.... If not, we would have to wait, who knows how long. And we can't--we can't--wait...."

Silva was sweating copiously, and began to speak as if hallucinating....

"Let's go, I tell you! Let's go! We have less than an hour left and we have to be there, without fail...."

From what followed I only remember brief bits, like a nightmare. That frantic crossing through streets already in shadow, the unspoken anxiety that someone or something was impeding us from arriving at our destiny. We almost didn't notice how the city was populating itself with shadows, nor how the windows displayed oscillating silhouettes projected by candles. We continued until we arrived at the Alameda. There Silva stopped, panting.

"I can't go on," he claimed.

"Lean on me," I encouraged him, and passed his arm over my shoulders. His skin was abnormally hot and damp, and I understood that something evil was happening to him. This knowledge increased my effort, and, without seeing anything that surrounded us, with my mind and sight fixed on the corner that we had so carelessly crossed the night before and that now appeared infinitely far away, I looked at my watch; it was already almost eight. And at that hour, give or take a little, everything had happened.

With a last push we arrived, Silva with progressively less energy; we turned the corner gasping for breath....

"You have to wait awhile, only awhile," whispered my friend.

The darkness and the strange buzz invaded us anew; and little by little, like an image that focuses itself, we could see the lights from the lampposts, from the cars that crossed the roadway, and, urgently, we continued our walk without detaining ourselves by looking back.

"Finally! Home...."

Laboriously we ascended the stairs of the apartment. Silva seemed to have exhausted all his energy and lay in a strange stupor. I deposited him on the couch, throwing aside the white lab coats that had hindered us, and examined him conscientiously. He looked bad, very bad.

"Get up," I told him. "We're going to the hospital, they'll take care of you there."

Again we returned to the Alameda, but this time nothing happened and, almost running, we entered the hospital.

"Doctors!" said a nurse. "What happened to you?" They had been searching for us all day. It was very urgent. "Oh, Dr. Silva! Let's go ... let's go...."

What follows is, so far, a bundle of blurry and disjointed memories. The news that the bricklayer we had attended had died of plague ... The apprehension we felt about the possibility of this becoming widespread news ... The confirmation that Dr. Silva himself had contracted the fatal illness. His death a day later.... My week-long sickness that was believed to be the same affliction.... The long quarantine.... The disinfecting and burning of all of the objects that could have been contaminated.... The obligatory silence about such news ... All of this caused the strange event of our arrival at the hospital on April 4th to be forgotten, even though we had been fruitlessly sought by doctors for examination on suspicion of contamination on April 3rd, but were nowhere to be found. It was supposed that the illness caused us to seek a strange refuge, about which we didn't remember anything....

I don't know if I spoke about what had happened in my delirium. But I do know that after having been released many weeks later, the sensation of having truly lived that strange experience remained, in spite of the knowledge that there are diseases that produce odd hallucinations. To convince myself, I went to visit the ancient Convent of San Jeronimo, now an official dependence and museum. Some things seemed changed; the large patio does not have the garden nor the fountains anymore, and the shape of the parlor had changed but the floor was the same, and I saw traces of the window that had overlooked the garden.

This made me consult and read old archives, everything in reference to dislocations of time, mysterious disappearances. And the events of the past began to hold, for me, a strange allure. I knew that, across time, mysterious disappearances had happened, and that the victims had never been seen again. According to the unique hypotheses of Leonardo da Vinci and Jules Verne, they were marooned in time, trapped in the past. From the theory of the Fourth Dimension and its enigmatic doors, sometimes gateways are opened to other times and other dimensions.

On reading works from the Colony and the life of Sor Juana I knew that all we had seen had existed. All had been real in their time. However, upon reading a biography, there was one fact that bothered me even more: "Sor Juana died on April 17, 1695, of a virus that afflicted only the convent of the San Jeronimo nuns; in the said year there was no plague in all of Mexico City. It is believed, as the investigator Efrain Castro affirms, that the water of the nearby canal was contaminated."

Sor Juana died on April 17th, and we had been there 14 days earlier! New questions surged into my mind: Was Silva contaminated by the water that he drank in the convent? Or was it the inverse: Did he contaminate the convent with the glass he left? The bricklayer that fell ill in the convent in this era, did he contract the microbe of that particular epidemic, or of subsequent ones? And finally, upon drinking from that glass, had Silva inadvertently caused the death of Sor Juana? Or had everything simply been coincidental?

All of these questions clouded my mind and nothing reasonable offered me the certainty that my experience had been real. Also, I had read about telepathy, retrocognition, and other paranormal phenomena that permit the mind to recall things that only can be known through the experience of the senses.

These questions and these doubts were making me fear for my sanity and, for that reason, I shut my mouth and refused to reveal to anyone what had happened. But, several months later, on finishing my residency, I decided to return to my city of origin, and while I was packing my things in the apartment, some letters slipped behind a heavy bookcase. I had to move it to recover them, and as I was doing it, something glittered on the floor. I picked it up, and on inspecting it, all of my doubts vanished. I knew the truth: I had in my hands a genuine coin from the seventeenth century! A coin that remained from the exchange of food for the ring, and that must have fallen from Silva's coat when I tossed it on a chair that fatal night.

(*)

A obscuras y segura

Por la secreta escala disfrazada

Oh, dichosa ventura

A obscuras y en celada

Estando ya mi casa sosegada...

COPYRIGHT 1994 Fairleigh Dickinson University
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group