expectation of finding don Juan that I had had in the after-
noon. I gave up. I went back to my hotel in order to get a
good night’s sleep.
Before I headed for the mountains in the morning, I drove
up and down the main streets in my car, but somehow I knew
that I was wasting my time. Don Juan was not there.
It took me all morning to drive to the little town where
Pablito and Nestor lived. I arrived around noon. Don Juan
had taught me never to drive directly into the town so as not
to arouse the curiosity of onlookers. Every time I had been
there I had always driven off the road, just before reaching
the town, onto a flat field where youngsters usually played
soccer. The dirt was well packed all the way to a walking
trail which was wide enough for a car and which passed by
Pablito’s and Nestor’s houses in the foothills south of town.
As soon as I got to the edge of the field I found that the walk-
ing trail had been turned into a gravel road.
I deliberated whether to go to Nestor’s house or Pablito’s.
The feeling that they were not there still persisted. I opted
to go to Pablito’s; I reasoned that Nestor lived alone, while
Pablito lived with his mother and his four sisters. If he was
not there the women could help me find him. As I got closer
to his house I noticed that the path leading from the road up
to the house had been widened. It looked as if the ground was
hard, and since there was enough space for my car, I drove
almost to the front door. A new porch with a tile roof had
been added to the adobe house. There were no dogs barking
but I saw an enormous one sitting calmly behind a fenced
area, alertly observing me. A flock of chickens that had been
feeding in front of the house scattered around, cackling. I
turned the motor off and stretched my arms over my head.
My body was stiff.
The house seemed deserted. The thought crossed my mind
that perhaps Pablito and his family had moved away and some-
one else was living there. Suddenly the front door opened
with a bang and Pablito’s mother stepped out as if someone
had pushed her. She stared at me absentmindedly for an in-
stant. As I got out of my car she seemed to recognize me. A
graceful shiver ran through her body and she ran toward me.
I thought that she must have been napping and that the noise
of the car had woken her, and when she came out to see what
was going on she did not know at first who I was. The incon-
gruous sight of the old woman running toward me made me
smile. When she got closer I had a moment of doubt. Some-
how she moved so nimbly that she did not seem like Pablito’s
mother at all.
My goodness what a surprise! she exclaimed.
Dona Soledad? I asked, incredulously.
Don’t you recognize me? she replied, laughing.
I made some stupid comments about her surprising agility.
Why do you always see me as a helpless old woman? she
asked, looking at me with an air of mock challenge.
She bluntly accused me of having nicknamed her Mrs.
Pyramid. I remembered that I had once said to Nestor that
her shape reminded me of a pyramid. She had a very broad
and massive behind and a small pointed head. The long dresses
that she usually wore added to the effect.
Look at me, she said. Do I still look like a pyramid?
She was smiling but her eyes made me feel uncomfortable.
I attempted to defend myself by making a joke but she cut
me off and coaxed me to admit that I was responsible for the
nickname. I assured her that I had never intended it as such
and that anyway, at that moment she was so lean that her
shape was the furthest thing from a pyramid.
What’s happened to you, dona Soledad? I asked. You’re
transformed.
You said it, she replied briskly. I’ve been transformed!
I meant it figuratively. However, upon closer examination
I had to admit that there was no room for a metaphor. She was
truly a changed person. I suddenly had a dry, metallic taste
in my mouth. I was afraid.
She placed her fists on her hips and stood with her legs
slightly apart, facing me. She was wearing a light green, gath-
ered skirt and a whitish blouse. Her skirt was shorter than
those she used to wear. I could not see her hair; she had it
tied with a thick band, a turban-like piece of cloth. She was
barefoot and she rhythmically tapped her big feet on the
ground as she smiled with the candor of a young girl. I had
never seen anyone exude as much strength as she did. I noticed
a strange gleam in her eyes, a disturbing gleam but not a
frightening one. I thought that perhaps I had never really
examined her appearance carefully. Among other things I felt
guilty for having glossed over many people during my years
with don Juan. The force of his personality had rendered
everyone else pale and unimportant.
I told her that I had never imagined that she could have
such a stupendous vitality, that my carelessness was to blame
for not really knowing her, and that no doubt I would have
to meet everyone else all over again.
She came closer to me. She smiled and put her right hand
on the back of my left arm, grabbing it gently.
That’s for sure, she whispered in my ear.
Her smile froze and her eyes became glazed. She was so
close to me that I felt her breasts rubbing my left shoulder.
My discomfort increased as I tried to convince myself that
there was no reason for alarm. I repeated to myself over and
over that I really had never known Pablito’s mother, and that
in spite of her odd behavior she was probably being her nor-
mal self. But some frightened part of me knew that those were
only bracing thoughts with no substance at all, because no
matter how much I may have glossed over her person, not
only did I remember her very well but I had known her
very well. She represented to me the archetype of a mother;
I thought her to be in her late fifties or even older. Her weak
muscles moved her bulky weight with extreme difficulty. Her
hair had a lot of gray in it. She was, as I remembered her, a
sad, somber woman with kind, handsome features, a dedicated,
suffering mother, always in the kitchen, always tired. I also
remembered her to be a very gentle and unselfish woman, and
a very timid one, timid to the point of being thoroughly sub-
servient to anyone who happened to be around. That was the
picture I had of her, reinforced throughout years of casual
contact. That day something was terribly different. The
woman I was confronting did not at all fit the image I had of
Pablito’s mother, and yet she was the same person, leaner and
stronger, looking twenty years younger, than the last time I
had seen her. I felt a shiver in my body.
She moved a couple of steps in front of me and faced me.
Let me look at you, she said. The Nagual told us that
you’re a devil.
I remembered then that all of them, Pablito, his mother, his
sisters and Nestor, had always seemed unwilling to voice don
Juan’s name and called him the Nagual, a usage which I
myself adopted when talking with them.
She daringly put her hands on my shoulders, something she
had never done before. My body tensed. I really did not know
what to say. There was a long pause that allowed me to take
stock of myself. Her appearance and behavior had frightened
me to the point that I had forgotten to ask about Pablito and
Nestor.
Tell me, where is Pablito? I asked her with a sudden
wave of apprehension.
Oh, he’s gone to the mountains, she responded in a non-
committal tone and moved away from me.
And where is Nestor?
She rolled her eyes as if to show her indifference.
They are together in the mountains, she said in the same
tone.
I felt genuinely relieved and told her that I had known
without the shadow of a doubt that they were all right.
She glanced at me and smiled. A wave of happiness and
ebullience came upon me and I embraced her. She boldly re-
turned the embrace and held me; that act was so outlandish
that it took my breath away. Her body was rigid. I sensed an
extraordinary strength in her. My heart began to pound. I