By The River Piedra I Sat Down & Wept

stay on there, as if he were expected to return. And when the money arrived, I would pay the bill and leave.

'Very good,' said the Other. 'You're getting back to how you were before. Don't be sad. One of these days, you'll find another man—one you can love without taking so many risks.'

I gathered my clothes from the heater. They were dry. I needed to find out which of the surrounding villages had a bank, make a phone call, take steps. If I thought carefully about all of that, there wouldn't be time for crying or regrets.

Then I saw his note:

I've gone to the seminary. Pack up your things, because we're going back to Spain tonight. I'll be back by late afternoon. I love you.

I clutched the note to my breast, feeling miserable and relieved at the same time. I noticed that the Other had retreated.

I loved him. With every minute that passed, my love was growing and transforming me. I once again had faith in the future, and little by little, I was recovering my faith in God. All because of love.

I will not talk to my own darkness anymore, I promised myself, closing the door on the Other. A jail from the third floor hurts as much as a fall from the hundredth.

If I have to fall, may it be from a high place.

'Don't go out hungry again,' said the woman.

'I didn't realize you spoke Spanish,' I answered, surprised.

'The border isn't far from here. Tourists come to Lourdes in the summer. If I couldn't speak Spanish, I couldn't rent rooms.'

She made me some toast and coffee. I was already trying to prepare myself to make it through the day— each hour was going to seem like a year. I hoped that this snack would distract me for a while.

'How long have you two been married?' she asked.

'He was the first person I ever loved,' I said. That was enough.

'Do you see those peaks out there?' the woman continued. 'The first love of my life died up in those mountains.'

'But you found someone else.'

'Yes, I did. And I found happiness again. Fate is strange: almost no one I know married the first love of their lives. Those who did are always telling me that they missed something important, that they didn't experience all that they might have.'

She stopped talking suddenly. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't mean to offend you.'

'I'm not offended.'

'I always look at that well there in the plaza. And I think to myself that before, no one knew where there was water. Then Saint Savin decided to dig and found it. If he hadn't done that, this village would be down there by the river.'

'But what does that have to do with love?' I asked.

'That well brought many people here, with their hopes and dreams and conflicts. Someone dared to look for water, water was found, and people gathered where it flowed. I think that when we look for love courageously, it reveals itself, and we wind up attracting even more love. If one person really wants us, everyone does. But if we're alone, we become even more alone. Life is strange.'

'Have you ever heard of the book called the I Ching?' I asked her.

'No, I haven't.'

'It says that a city can be moved but not a well. It's around the well that lovers find each other, satisfy their thirst, build their homes, and raise their children. But if one of them decides to leave, the well cannot go with them. Love remains there, abandoned—even though it is filled with the same pure water as before.'

'You speak like a mature woman who has already suffered a great deal, my dear,' she said.

'No. I've always been frightened. I've never dug a well. But I'm trying to do that now, and I don't want to forget what the risks are.'

I felt something in the pocket of my bag pressing at me. When I realized what it was, my heart went cold. I quickly finished my coffee.

The key. I had the key.

'There was a woman in this city who died and left everything to the seminary at Tarbes,' I said. 'Do you know where her house is?'

The woman opened the door and showed me. It was one of the medieval houses on the plaza. The back of the house looked out over the valley toward the mountains in the distance.

'Two priests went through the house about two months ago,' she said. 'And…' She stopped, looking at me doubtfully. 'And one of them looked a lot like your husband.'

'It was,' I answered. The woman stood in her doorway, puzzled, as I quickly left. I felt a burst of energy, happy that I had allowed the child in me to pull a prank.

I soon stood in front of the house, not knowing what to do. The mist was everywhere, and I felt as if I were in a gray dream where strange figures might appear and take me away to places even more peculiar.

I toyed nervously with the key.

With the mist as thick as it was, it would be impossible to see the mountains from the window. The house would be dark; there would be no sun shining through the curtains. The house would seem sad without him at my side.

I looked at my watch. Nine in the morning.

I had to do something—something that would make the time pass, that would help me wait.

Wait. This was the first lesson I had learned about love. The day drags along, you make thousands of plans, you imagine every possible conversation, you promise to change your behavior in certain ways—and you feel more and more anxious until your loved one arrives. But by then, you don't know what to say. The hours of waiting have been transformed into tension, the tension has become fear, and the fear makes you embarrassed about showing affection.

I didn't know whether I should go in. I remembered our conversation of the previous day—the house was the symbol of a dream.

But I couldn't spend the whole day just standing there. I gathered up my courage, grasped the key firmly, and walked to the door.

'Pilar!'

The voice, with a strong French accent, came from the midst of the fog. I was more surprised than frightened. I thought it might be the owner of the house where we had rented the room—although I didn't recall having told him my name.

'Pilar!' I heard again, nearer this time.

I looked back at the plaza shrouded in mist. A figure was approaching, walking hurriedly. Perhaps the ghosts that I had imagined in the fog were becoming a reality.

'Wait,' the figure said. 'I want to talk to you.'

When he had come closer, I could see that it was a priest. He looked like a caricature of the country padre: short, on the heavy side, with sparse white hair on a nearly bald head.

'Hola,' he said, holding out his hand and smiling.

I answered him, a bit astonished.

'Too bad the fog is hiding everything,' he said, looking toward the house. 'Since Saint-Savin is in the mountains, the view from this house is beautiful; you can see the valley down below and the snow-covered peaks. But you probably already knew that.'

I decided that this must be the superior from the monastery.

'What are you doing here?' I asked. 'And how do you know my name?'

'Do you want to go in?' he said, trying to change the subject.

'No! I'd like you to answer my questions.'