The Invisible Mountain by Carolina de Robertis

else?”
    “No.”
    “Do you love me?”
    “I don’t know you.”
    “I love you, Pajarita. Do you believe me?”
    She paused so long he thought she might never answer. “Yes.”
    “Yes—to what?”
    “Yes, I believe you.”
“Oh.” He faltered. “We leave tomorrow. I could save some money, visit in the fall. Maybe then you’d have an answer?”
    “Maybe.”
    He strained for something else to say—something gallant, captivating—but she was already walking back down the path. He followed her, spilling twigs. Dinner sped by, and much too soon it was time to go.
    Ignazio slept fitfully that night, and woke up queasy. He could not ingest a thing, not even
mate
.
    “Ay.”
Cacho passed the gourd to Bajo, the midget. “No
mate
. I see it’s serious.”
    They took apart the tents, booths, and stages. It was a rapid process; they were flimsy, makeshift edifices, after all.
    The Spaniard slapped his back. “Don’t worry, Gondola. There’s plenty of other women.”
    Ignazio said nothing.
    “Look,” Consuelo called from her wagon, pointing to the western hills.
    Ignazio turned and saw two horses on a green crest, one carrying Tía Tita, and one carrying Pajarita, poised amid bags of belongings, looking like a savage angel. They rode up to Ignazio. Pajarita looked down from her saddle. Her eyes were dark waters he could drown in. “The priest is at the church,” she said. “If we go now, he can have us married in an hour.”
    Ignazio glanced at the Spaniard, who nodded his permission. He mounted her horse, his thighs against her hips. They rode together into town, with Tía Tita, Cacho, Consuelo, and Bajo on horseback in their wake. By the time they arrived in the plaza, three dozen
tacuaremboenses
had joined their caravan. In the church, the pews crackled with attention as Ignazio and Pajarita exchanged vows. For better or for worse, the priest intoned, almost melodically. In sickness and in health. Yes, they said. Yes, again. A sigh rippled through the pews. Cacho wiped his tears with leather rope. An infant next to Cacho howled in satisfaction (she had made terrific tooth marks on a Bible). The priest pronounced it done: man and wife.
    They rode back to the campsite, where the blond twins blared their trumpets, wreaking havoc among the horses.
“Señora Firielli,” the Spaniard pronounced and, carried away by the moment, bowed. “Welcome to Carnaval Calaquita. We’ll escort you to your new life.” He reached for her bags. “We’ve made room for your things.”
    She moved his hand. “This one stays with me.”
    “Of course,” he said uncertainly, and took the remaining bags.
    Ignazio beamed at Tía Tita over his bride’s head. “Doña Tita, don’t worry. I will treat your niece like a queen.”
    “You will. You must.” Tita reached across the divide between their horses, and pressed Pajarita’s palm. She touched the sack her niece had guarded. Ignazio felt his new wife’s breathing deepen, and tightened his arms around her. Tía Tita seemed to drink Pajarita with her eyes. Then she pulled her reins and rode up the path and out of sight.
    The company rode for many hours that day, all the way to the tranquil shore of the Río Negro. That night, before crossing into the southern half of Uruguay, Carnaval Calaquita camped at the edge of the river. Consuelo, the magician’s wife, Mistress of Disguises, found a secluded grove and made a nuptial bed of cowhide, wildflowers, and the blue velveteen that had curtained the stage the night the couple had met.
    Ignazio lay down with Pajarita under the round light of the moon. He kissed her shoulders. He untied her braids and shook her hair loose and it poured into his hands, dark, rich, as smooth and dangerous as water. She reached for him. He meant to touch her with slow reverence but urge propelled him into her and she was ready, wide, sighing. Afterward they slept an opulent sleep.
    He woke. She was in his arms. It was still night. He listened to