aka "The Song of Bernardo's Heart"
by Mary Sheeran
Today, I saw him in the plaza. He was smiling. He always smiles, the fool. A woman walked toward him, her arms outstretched, and he reached out towards her, and he smiled so happily. Such a dizzy, stupid smile, they all thought. And then she walked right past him. He shrugged his shoulders, and the girls with me giggled at him. Imagine the portly little deaf mute as a romantic figure! I was glad that he could not hear them. For young people can be so cruel. And so stupid. No matter what you tell these young ones, they know everything. Someday, they will know that everyone feels hurts and aching loneliness and the desperation of wanting to have at least one dream come true someday.
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Don Alejandro said something quietly to a few of the servants about the young woman Padre Felipe brought to the hacienda. She had been found wandering at the site of an Indian attack far up north. Padre Felipe brought her to Los Angeles, trying to find her a place of service, but no one wanted her. She could not talk, and she looked down at her hands all the time.
It seemed that she heard only what she needed to hear, enough that no one had to bother with helping her or going out of their way for her, just be annoyed with her oddness and not feel too guilty talking about it with their friends. She lived inside herself and huddled into corners and darkness. Such trouble she could be! But she could sew and chop vegetables.
He noticed her at once. She was more like him than the others except that her silence came from terror. She sat in her corner sewing, her long dark hair hiding her green eyes, so sad, so reflective. He would go up to her and nod cheerfully at her work, try to catch her eye. If only she would smile back. She kept on sewing, plain little stitches mending old tears, her own open spiritual cuts too painful to touch.
He would get up earlier than usual, rather difficult since, with his double life he hardly ever went to bed at all and cherished catching more time in slumber. Now he used the early morning hours to hunt the loveliest wildflowers he could, bringing them to her, laying them on her lap, presenting her with a vase filled with bright blossoms. Still she did not smile. Some of the young men laughed at her and called her stupid names. He could not show that he heard them. That was hard. He wanted to hurt them, make them stop, silence them. Perhaps he should, for he loved this girl very much. Perhaps he should risk his own secret for her. He and Diego helped so many people but she was beyond Zorro’s help. He once tried telling Diego about her, but his invented sign language had no such words that could express what he wanted to say. It was then that he realized that the codes he had mastered with Diego were all about his serving his master. And why not? That was his life’s work, and it was work he had chosen. He owed so much to Diego and valued his relationship with him, one beyond master and servant, certainly, but even his hands could not express those sentiments of a bursting heart.
He wanted to do all the things that lovers do. He could not give her jewelry. He did not have anything worth anything. And oh, if he could sing to her, and play romantic songs on a guitar! He could not show anyone he knew how to hear music much less play it. So one day, he stood in front of her, and he mimicked playing a guitar. And here, three months later, she looked at him, and she began to smile, and her smile turned to laughter, and she sang out her amusement.
It took every ounce of self control that he had not to show her he had heard. He simply smiled back at her and nodded up and down up and down. One early morning, as he was going into the fields to look for flowers, she came along beside him and walked with him. How happy he felt with her beside him! He reached out with all the courage he had ever used on one of his Zorro escapades, and he took her hand in his. She did not pull it back. They sat down on a big rock under the willows overlooking the river. Already, the grass smelled so sweet.
It was a beautiful morning. The sun had just risen and the sky was still a deep purple mixed with dark pinks. The birds were still shrieking at the morning light. Beneath the singing, such a deep quiet filled the waking day, and it was sublime to him, as if the whole world felt incredible happiness with her in it.
“If only,” she said softly, “you could hear the birds. If only you could hear me.” She knew he could not hear her, and she put her hands, one on top of the other, on her heart. Then she held her arms out toward him. He nodded at her, and he took her hands and kissed them passionately. Who would have thought to see the little deaf mute, so faithful, so funny, and such a devoted servant to Don Diego to be this man who had only one thought of one person so important to his life – who would have thought this little one could show such passion. You really cannot judge appearances, can you?
That day was a very busy one. Don Diego needed to go into the tavern to pick up some information. It had been hard to remember business. So he had spent all day in the pueblo, and when he returned, he hurried to the kitchen to be with her. But her chair was empty. The sewing basket was not there. He turned around, saw the cook, and pointed at the chair.
The cook waved him away. “How can I tell that fool?”
He was terrified. Where had she gone? But the cook gestured him toward the serving platters with impatience. Well, he had work to do. He went down to the wine cellar. While attending at the table, he found out the truth.
Don Alejandro was saying, “You will not believe what happened. Padre Felipe came today with a gentleman from Argentina, a Count Montoya. He has been looking for his niece, whose family was killed in one of the Indian raids up north. It turns out that she has been here, a servant in our hacienda, for the last several months.”
Diego shook his head. “A countess right in our kitchen? Which one was she?”
“The little quiet one with dark hair and big eyes. She stayed in the kitchen mostly.”
“I don’t remember her,” said Diego. “But what a story. From rags to riches.”
“You just never know,” said Don Alejandro.
Diego looked up to see his servant turn rapidly toward the window, his back to them. Diego knew enough about Bernardo to know that something was very wrong. He wondered if it concerned this girl. But he never said anything; men are often like that. And Bernardo never deviated from his helpful, whimsical self. Of course, one should not go by appearances…
A year went by, an exciting year of bold deeds and dangerous escapades. Alone at night, catching his precious moments of sleep, he would remember her, and she comforted him every night.
It so happened that the de la Vegas were giving a fiesta. The servants hurried about the patio, serving food and drinks. The young people were dancing. Diego was dancing with a most beautiful lady.
“Have you seen her, Bernardo? The one with green eyes? Isn’t she beautiful?” Diego asked him, gesturing toward the lady. He muttered, “Who would believe she once was our kitchen girl?”
He took a good look, and he thought he could wail aloud. It was indeed his lady of the kitchen. There was Diego dancing with her again, kissing her hand, leading her across the patio – to – Diego was taking her outside, to be alone with her in the moonlight.
A few moments later, he could hear Diego’s rich baritone filling the air with music dripping with poetry, and when he looked down from the balcony, he saw that the two were kissing – But she pulled away and shook her head.
“I am sorry,” Diego said. “I did not know.
He felt so relieved. He did not know if he could have stood Diego loving her, now, that he could not even approach her. She bustled by him, taking an offered glass of wine without looking at him.
Oh, who am I, what hope is there for me to be anyone special for someone I can love. I want so much to give my love, but no one is there for me. That is the world I must serve in. A world that cannot hear my love.
For one day, he hated Diego. Really. Diego went riding with the Senorita Montoya and brought her back into the house. Such charm and warmth Diego had! He found it hard to watch. He waited on their table and brought her lemonade and stand ready to serve them as they played chess, their heads bent over together and nearly touching. She never looked at him. She was like any other lady, assuming he would be there to pour her wine and set down her plate.
Come take my hand come take my heart come be my dream come forever come take my hand…the world is cold and we shall warm each other…
He could not bear it. He fled upstairs and began to brush all of Diego’s jackets with feverish energy.
Diego ran in for a book. “Well, there goes another,” he muttered. He smiled, looked puzzled.
“Senorita Montoya is beautiful and accomplished. But – she is betrothed to some rich noble in Italy. The fortunes of war again, my friend, eh?” But Diego looked sad. Then he shrugged and left the room.
He nearly fell to his knees. He hated her. He felt so awful because he hated her. No longer would she help him through the night. Everything beautiful had been taken from him. Loving and dreaming can be enough and sometimes better when you cannot love for real. Now he only had the reality. No one would ever love him. It had seemed that she might. Now she was gone farther than he could travel. The whole world was filled with love or the possibility of love, except for him. He was so very alone.
Then the thought came to him; even before it did, his heart started pounding with excitement. He would present her with a flower. He would do something simple, and she would remember, and even if she did not, he would have done that much. At least, that was something of his dream. That might help restore something of the warmth in his heart. That might help the loneliness that overtook him.
He hurried out onto the balcony, looking for one of the few remaining flowerpots that had not been broken over someone’s head that month. He seized a handful of golden blossoms and bunched them into his hand.
“I hope you have a pleasant journey,” he heard Diego saying. He looked down at the terrace at Diego walking across the patio with Senorita Montoya. Her uncle was at the gate, as were some armed lancers who rode with the Montoya carriage as a matter of honor, and a matter of course.
Bernardo walked down the stairs slowly, wondering what he was going to do. She was about to leave. His heart would not stop beating so loudly. She must have heard it. She looked up at him, liquid wide green eyes beneath the delicate lace mantilla which she threw back.
“Diego,” said Don Alejandro’s terse voice. “May I speak with you a moment?”
Diego bowed to her, and she only nodded absently. It must have something to do with Zorro, he thought. But he couldn’t care at the moment. She was looking at him. Now his feet touched the patio. All these people around. He smiled, nodded like a fool, and then played extravagant clown and fell at her feet with a grand gesture of a troubadour. Such a fool.
She knelt down to take the flowers. “Are these for me?” she asked, as if speaking to a child. He grinned like the fool everyone thought he as and handed them to her. He helped her to her feet, touching her hands lightly, as if they were delicate petals. The touch of her was enough, and his eyes filled with tears. He looked at her eyes.
Tears filled her eyes, but she remained a great lady. “Of all the men in the world,” she said softly, “I love you. You were so good to me. You heard me. I have to marry someone else, and go far away, but I shall always love you. How I wish you could hear me. Oh, Bernardo.”
Too many were watching, they could do no more. She turned away quickly and hurried to her father. The gate opened, closed. Diego and his father followed. Bernardo flew into the house, through the kitchen and to the back door. He ran desperately around the hacienda – the carriage was moving – he wanted to yell, “wait, wait, I can hear you! I can hear you! “
The sun was edging close to the horizon now, and there was only a small amount of light left in the sky, but that little bit of light was brilliant, like bright angels’ wings cutting through the sky with edges of pink. Bernardo raced toward the road and watched the carriage turn the corner. He stopped, and for a moment his face was ashen with grief and the terror that he now had to live with. And the emptiness.
He flung out his arms. He brought his hands together over his heart. He flung out his arms again, reaching toward the light.
“Look at the fool! What does he think he is doing?” someone called out near him. Men laughed just a few feet away.
“Hey, Bernardo! Is that a rain dance?”
Bernardo stood, the last light on his face, and he smiled, his arms flung out, his whole body filled with the dream of love. And as for the laughter, he did not hear it.
THE END
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