Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Written in the first week of April, 2008

APRIL

The month of new beginnings. April equals Spring. (Though after my excursion last year into the southern hemisphere, I am reminded that April equals Fall in Argentina. But I am here and not there.)

Despite the headline of this website, most of the postings have been journal items and essays. April seems a good time to revive the other promised category - New Stories. Because I’m absorbed in the final detailed review of the manuscript of my big novel, Third Wish, before it is published in English – Yes, it’s happening– and because I’m also assembling a new novel based on my tango dancing adventures, my mind is cultivating the fields of fiction.

So. I will tell you a story.

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MERRY APRIL CHRISTMAS

Marisol Machado had never been alone on Christmas Eve. She had never been without the promise of presents, the feast with family, a party with friends, or a tree to decorate. But now, at eight o’clock in the evening on the 24th of December she stood alone by the front window of The Southwest Sinderella, a fashionable boutique on a narrow side street in Santa Fe. Outside, the snow floated lightly down. Inside, the store was silent after she had turned off the tiresome holiday music.

Marisol Machado was a long way from home – Spain – and a long way from the man she had followed to Buenos Aires – Hector, the flamenco guitarist. Fleeing failed and foolish love, she had traveled to New Mexico for the winter, for the time being on the way to whatever Fate had in mind, for she had taken her hands off the steering wheel of her life and placed herself squarely in the hands of fortune. Not forever, just for the winter.
She had been drawn to the flamboyant clothes in The Southwest Sinderella. A shop featuring one-of-a-kind originals influenced by the traditions of Colonial Spanish, Navajo Indian, American Cowboy, and nomadic folk art. Outfits combining fringed silk shawls, leather vests with silver conchos, pleated velvet skirts, linen blouses with colorful needlework, and belts inset with blue-green turquoise stones. High-heeled snakeskin western boots in reds and pinks and greens completed the ensemble. The essence of Santa Fe Style.

Though Marisol was a temporary visitor without a work permit, she had so often visited the store and tried on so many outfits with such pleasure that she was offered part-time holiday employment. With payment in cash - off the books, of course. Her lively, affable personal style, Latin good looks, and fluency in English, Spanish, and French might be an asset to the shop. And so it proved to be. Moreover, she was also willing to work late in the evening and close the store. Even on Christmas Eve.

Through the shop window she saw a man walking down the opposite side of the street. Black overcoat, black beret, and a crimson red scarf wrapped around his neck and pulled up over his chin against the cold. “European,” she thought. Santa Fe was a magnet for European tourists. They came from all over the continent for a taste of the Wild West - cowboys and Indians, the art scene, and the cuisine.
“Spanish?”she wondered, as she watched the man. Spaniards felt an ancestral affinity for this part of the New World which had been settled by their people before the United States existed.

The man paused and considered the silver jewelry and Indian pottery displayed in the windows of shops already closed. As he turned to move on, he glanced across the street, noticed her, and pressed his hands together and then apart, asking if her shop was open. Marisol smiled, nodded yes, and with both of her hands she beckoned him to come.
He came.

"I’m surprised you’re open,” he said.
“Not Spanish, she thought – American.”
"It’s my job to stay late – there are always last minute shoppers.”
He glanced around the shop and smiled. “Beautiful.”
"Everything in the store is unique,” she said.
He turned his gaze at her and smiled again. “Yes.”
"Please take off your coat and take your time. Would you like a cup of hot spiced cider? There’s plenty still in the urn.”
"Thank you. Please.”

“A gentleman,” she thought.
By the time she had filled his cup he was already carefully examining the clothes. He took pleasure in touching the fine fabrics, spreading out the pleated skirts to reveal the hidden designs, running his fingers across the silk shawls, and examining the beads and turquoise with the eye of an appraiser who well knew the difference between what was authentic and what was imitation.

Marisol handed him the cup of cider. “These clothes are designed for women. Are you looking for something for a special woman?”
"No, but I have been to parties in Santa Fe where certain men would wear any outfit in the store with delight.”
“Gay,” she thought.
"But not for me. Is there nothing at all for a man?”
“Not gay,” she thought.
"There is perhaps. In the back room. No woman has ever tried it on, but I think that the right man might well wear it for the right occasion.”
"May I see it?”
"Of course. Just a moment.”

"This,” she said, holding the garment up for him to consider, was once what the Mexicans call a serape and what is called a poncho in Argentina, where men still wear them with pride in the countryside or at polo games or horse shows. This one began as a man’s serape, but the designer has split it all the way down the front to make it more of a coat or cloak, and, as you can see, the designer has added feminine touches that might make it too decorative for a man’s taste.”

The garment was a single piece of woven cloth, once with a hole in the center to allow it to be worn over the head, but now opened for easier access. Wide enough to cover the shoulders and the arms to the elbows, and long enough to reach below the knees in front and behind. Once striped in bright yellows and reds and greens, now softened with use and faded like the last colors of a desert sunset. 
The designer had added silver conchos with strings of bright ribbons hanging from the centers. The ribbons had amber beads tied at their ends. The head opening had been reinforced with yellow leather. In the center of the back was a colorful piece of antique embroidered tapestry from which hung a black silk tassel.
He took it from her, examined it closely, and said:
"Exquisite. A cloak to wear in a fairy tale.”

Marisol explained: “It has not sold, I think, because it is too long for a women, too strong perhaps. And, well, far too expensive. The serape is quite old – hand woven – an antique of museum quality. And the beads and silver, likewise.”

"Magnificent,” he said. “May I try it on?”
"Of course. You will be the first, actually.”

He stood before a three-sided mirror. Marisol noticed that he was only admiring the coat - not admiring himself in it. “No sale,” she thought. He removed the coat, folded it over his arm, and asked, “I’ll sit down and finish my cider? I trust I’ll not be keeping you. Will you join me?”
And invitation, not a question.
"Yes. I’m alone and the store must remain open late.”

He chose a chair. She sat down on a bench opposite him.
"Are you from Argentina?” he asked.
"No. I was there for some months on an . . . how shall I say . . . an adventure. Traveling, as I am here. But I’m a native of Spain, where I grew up, and where I must soon return.”
Before she could ask, “And you?” he took the initiative.
"Take me to Spain, where I have never been. Tell me about Christmas there – memories from any time in your life – anything and everything.”
Two hours later, urged along by his adept questioning, she had unwrapped all her Christmas memories – sometimes laughing – sometimes wiping away a tear – and sometimes surprising herself by the details she remembered. She gave him what he asked – anything and everything. Christmas in Spain. But he gave her no opportunity to inquire of him.

Just as he was about to insist on sharing his Christmas memories, he glanced at his watch, rose, and said “Thank you for your gifts. I must go.”
Holding out the cloak of many colors, he said, “I’ll take this with me.”
"Shall I wrap it as a present – for someone special?”
"No. Actually it’s for me. I often buy beautiful things just to enjoy their presence in my life for awhile. And also because I like having them available to give away when an unexpected special occasion arises.”
He looked away into the shop, as if wanting to preserve the memory of the colors and textiles and trimmings. His demeanor did not invite further inquiry. And she, Marisol Machado, was brought up as a proper Spanish Catholic woman who did not question men who did not invite questioning.

However. If he had said something like “I’m alone for the evening. If you are also alone, may I be bold enough to ask you to join me for a drink or dinner?” she would have closed the store and gone with him. Under the circumstances, an invitation provided by Fate would have been acceptable.
But he did not ask.
He paid, put on his coat, and accepted the serape in its plain bag.
"Thank you,” he said, as he opened the door to leave.
"Gracias, senor, Feliz Navidad.”
He closed the door and was gone.

Standing alone once more in the shop window, Marisol watched as he walked away down the street in the still-falling snow.
He stopped, turned around, and walked back toward the shop.
She opened the door. “Did you forget something?”
"Yes,” he said, and dropping his bag, he gracefully embraced her in his arms and held her close for what she would remember as an infinite moment. Cautiously, gently she hugged him in return.
Releasing her, he stepped back, smiled, held up his hand as if making the sign of a blessing, and said, “Merry Christmas.” And picking up the bag with the beautiful treasure folded inside, he turned and was gone again.

Marisol Machado stood in the open door, barely restraining herself from running after him. If he had so much as glanced back she would have run out into the snow to him. But he did not. And the pace of his walk as he turned the corner told him he would not return. Now. Or tomorrow. Or . . . ever.

Fate had brought her a present after all. An unimaginable memory.
Marisol Machado closed the door, locked it, and turned out the lights.
Later, on her way to midnight Mass, she was humming carols.
“Feliz Navidad,” she thought, as she crossed herself before kneeling in the church. Her mind was not on the holy baby Jesus, but on the man who had come to her at The Santa Fe Sinderella. She did not believe in angels, even if they existed. She did believe in Fate, though its shape was vague.
She knew it could not be summoned. Could not be compelled. Could not be predicted or explained. Only acknowledged and accepted. Fate may be cruel or kind, but it never plays jokes.
“So be it,” she said to herself as she kneeled in her pew to pray.

SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER, Marisol Machado was back in the United States. After returning to Spain and her family, she had found work as a journalist writing a regular column on international travel for a famous Spanish magazine.
Today, in the first week of April, she was in Portland, Oregon. After spending the morning in its Japanese garden to see the iris in bloom, she had explored its famous bookstores and coffee houses in the afternoon. For the last two hours she had sat contentedly outside in the April sun drinking tea, reviewing her notes and considering the passing parade of Portland natives.

Her waitress came to her table holding a package wrapped in bright red paper and tied with dark green ribbon.
"A man asked me to give this to you.”
"Which man? Why?”
"I don’t know. I didn’t really pay that close attention, but, anyway, he’s gone now. He handed me twenty dollars, asked me to deliver this, and walked away up the street.” She stepped out onto the sidewalk. “I don’t see him.”
"Are you sure that’s all you know?”
"Well, I might have seen him before sometime. Maybe in that antique shop across the street – the one with the “Closed” sign hanging in the door. He may be the guy who owns it. I’ll ask around if you want me to.”
"No, thank you . . . thank you . . . don’t.”

Marisol Machado untied the green ribbon, carefully pulled the sticky tape away from the red paper, and opened the package. “Oh, no!” she said aloud. But, yes. Inside was the coat of many colors from Southwest Sinderella in Santa Fe. And an envelope. Heart pounding, she pulled out the card and read the message written in elegant calligraphy:

“If I am ever asked to tell someone about the best Christmas Eve of my life, I will tell them about Santa Fe and you and this cloak. Remember that I explained that I would enjoy its presence in my life, and then give it to someone special someday on a special occasion. This day in April is that day and you are that person. The work of fate then, and the work of fate now. No more. No less. It is best that you do not know my story, but it is enough for you to know that you saved my life. Merry April Christmas.”

Marisol Machado stood up, took off her jacket, and draped the cloak around her shoulders. And sat down again. “Fate,” she thought. “Fate.”

And then what happened? You may well ask.
Answer: You may imagine. It is your right and privilege.
Always remembering, of course, that Fate, however fine, is unreasonable, and does not respond well to demands. But for those who trust Fate from time to time, magical moments may occur – let that be sufficient.