Harbinger

The bird was pecking at my window again. Two days in a row. It was the same bird, a black pigeon. I’ve never been superstitious, but living in Mexico was changing that.

Mexicans are no strangers to superstition and magical thinking. The weird thing is, when they believe something, even something completely illogical, it seems that there is verifiable evidence to back up their beliefs. Just yesterday, my friend Mario, who gives me Spanish lessons every Tuesday, met me at our favorite restaurant, La Paz, a bright yellow building with tables set up outside. The topic of family came up, and I asked Mario if he had siblings.

“Si, I have three brothers and two sisters living, one sister dead.” Mario’s face darkened as he mentioned his dead sister. He was only twenty-seven, so I assumed his sister had been a victim of accident or illness.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “She must have been very young.”

“She died because of a jealous woman,” Mario said. What? Had his sister been murdered? Mario shot me a sideways look. “I don’t know if I should tell you this story, because Nortenos don’t believe that things like this can happen…”

“What sorts of things?” I leaned forward in my chair and helped myself to more chips and guacamole.

“Voodoo,” Mario said.

“Wow—Voodoo? I didn’t know that was a Mexican thing.”

Mario told me that his sister had been nineteen years old and well known for her beauty. She had wavy black hair down to her waist and a petite figure. “Valentina was always laughing,” Mario said, “and her laughter was like little silver bells. She had many suitors, but she turned them all down.”

“Why,” I asked.

“She was secretly in love with our aunt’s husband. This aunt, my father’s younger sister, somehow guessed that her husband was attracted to my sister.”

I didn’t think this would have been difficult for the aunt. Men, I have noticed, cannot keep their eyes off of women they admire. And women tend to watch their men, to see if they have a wandering eye.

“So—”, I hesitated, “your aunt actually murdered your sister? Is she in prison?”

“Of course not. Nothing can be proved. But I know, because our little brother saw her with a voodoo doll and she was sticking needles into the stomach of this doll.” Mario crushed a tortilla chip between his fingers and dropped the crumbs onto the patio. “My sister died of stomach cancer.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Oh—that’s terrible.” I hesitated again. “But how can you be sure she wouldn’t have had the stomach cancer anyway?”

Mario put his beer down on the table a little harder than necessary. “She never would have been sick if it weren’t for the voodoo!”

“Okay. I’m not doubting you, I’m just—trying to understand,” I said. I waved at the waiter and ordered another margarita for me and another beer for Mario.

Mario seemed to mellow a bit, halfway through his second beer. “There are many ways to kill a person, if you know magic,” he said. “One way is to send a bird of death.”

“A bird of death?” I asked, thinking of the black pigeon.

“Yes,” Mario said. “Black birds are known to be harbingers of death.”

“Crap,” I said, and accidentally knocked over my almost empty margarita. I signalled the waiter for a third.

“You’re going to be drunk,” Mario observed.

“Mario, listen to me,” I said. “There’s been a black pigeon outside my window for two days in a row. I’ve never seen it before.”

“Two days in a row? Are you having an affair with someone else’s man?”

“Good grief, Mario, of course not! I’m in my sixties with two ex husbands. I have no interest in dealing with men at this point in my life.”

Mario looked at me suspiciously. “There are no men you have contact with?”

“Of course, I have contact with men. I’m here with you, right now, and even though you’re young enough to be my son—”

“Grandson,” Mario corrected.

I sighed. “Ok, grandson. I also see the one-armed butcher twice a week to buy meat for the dogs, and there are the male cashiers at the grocery store; basically, I see men every day. Are their wives and girlfriends going to try to kill me? I honestly don’t think I pose much of a threat.” Ha. That’s an understatement. I’ve let myself go since I retired. I never get my hair cut. I’ve put on a few pounds (chips and margaritas). And I don’t own any makeup. My life is as perfect as it’s ever been. I eat, sleep, walk the dogs, practice my Spanish and putter around the garden. The garden! I remember Jesus, the elderly gardener who was part of the package deal when I rented my apartment. Water, utilities and gardener included. And his wife who lives with him in the tiny casita in one corner of the hacienda.

“Oh, my god, Mario. I just remembered something,” I said.
“What?” Now Mario is the one leaning forward, eager for details.
“There’s this ancient gardener, Jesus, who came with my apartment. I swear he must be a hundred years old—but he has a wife.”

“Ah,” said Mario. “And this ancient gardener, does he flirt with you?”

“Kind of,” I said. “I guess. But I never thought much of it, because—well, he’s so old. And I know I’m old, too, and look like a fossil to someone as young as you, but Jesus is in a different category of old. Plus he’s missing most of his teeth. Maybe all of them, I never wanted to look too closely.”

Mario nodded as if he now understood why the black pigeon was haunting me.
“If I were you, I would leave the apartment. If the bird is there for seven days in a row, you are doomed.”

“Doomed? What do you mean?” I felt panicky.

“I think you know the definition of doomed,” Mario said. “Thank you for the beers. I hope to see you next Tuesday.” He pushed his chair back from the table and departed. It was like he was afraid my doom was contagious.

That was yesterday. This morning, the black pigeon is back. Day number three. As I watch him look through the glass with one evil little yellow eye, I feel a sudden pain behind my belly button. I press on it, hard, with one hand, and the pain subsides. I yank the curtains closed so I can’t see the bird, and drag out my suitcase from under the bed. The dogs and I can check into a hotel I know just off the Jardin de las Ranas, and I’ll ask the landlady to send over the rest of my belongings. She can keep my security deposit. Another stab of pain shoots through, deeper, in my abdomen. I start throwing clothes into the suitcase.