The Witch's Market by Mingmei Yip Page A

who’d put the gown on for me and not her master. Fortunately I was far enough from San Francisco for anyone there to hear about my current state of affairs.
    Maria handed me a glass of water, which I gulped down as if stranded in the desert.
    â€œYou better stay with us for a day or two until you’re fit to go home,” Alfrenso said.
    â€œNo, I’m feeling better,” I said, but just then I had a coughing spell.
    â€œEileen, I’m afraid you can’t. You caught pneumonia and I had my doctor come give you an injection of antibiotic. Here in Spain we believe in hospitality. You were nearly unconscious for a while. I must keep you here until you’ve completely recovered.”
    I had pneumonia? I coughed again and realized he must be right.
    He went on. “You need to eat. Maria will fix you something,”
    He seemed to be a very kind man, so kind that I wondered if he hoped to take advantage of me. But this Spanish gentleman seemed quite refined, not at all that kind of man. I thought he must be rich to live in this castle and therefore could find plenty of women, so he had no need of me. I felt relief wash over me. And actually I wasn’t helpless. As a shamaness, or at least someone from a shamanic lineage, I knew all sorts of supernatural arts, or at least thought I did, in case I needed to handle this older man.
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    Later, after I woke up from another nap, Maria helped me change out of my nightgown and into a dress. I couldn’t help but wonder whose gown it was—Señor Alfrenso’s wife’s? A mistress’s? But I was too hungry to speculate further and so allowed myself to be led into the kitchen. It was quite roomy, larger than the entire apartment in which I’d spent my Hong Kong childhood. There was a long, sturdy table, a metal-covered counter, an ancient-looking stove, and even a chandelier.
    Maria leaned over her pots while Alfrenso sat across from me, sipping his coffee and looking pensive. I wondered if someone entering the kitchen and seeing us together would imagine that we were lovers, enjoying breakfast together after a night of passion.
    â€œSeñor Alfrenso—”
    â€œPlease just call me Alfredo.”
    â€œAlfredo.” I took a sip of the chilled, fresh orange juice. “I think this place is called the Maiden Fortress? But you said it is Heartbreak Castle. . . .”
    â€œYes, I changed the name. I just haven’t gotten around to changing the plaque outside.”
    â€œOh . . . I . . .” I almost said that I was sorry to hear about the “heartbreak” but feared it would be impolite to ask.
    Some silence passed, punctuated by my coughing. When I had cleared my throat, he said, “Eileen, can you tell me how you ended up here?”
    I was at a loss as to how to answer him. Would he believe my convoluted story of coming here to find witches and ending up dancing naked with them? What would he think of me if I told him? But surely he must know about the witches, as they carried out their rituals near his castle.
    â€œI came to the island to do research for my book,” I said rather timidly. “I’m a professor of anthropology at San Francisco State University.”
    He cocked his head. “Professor! It’s an honor to have a professor as my guest.” He paused to sip more coffee. “Tell me why you came all the way to Tenerife Island and ended up at my castle. Do you expect to find happiness in a heartbreak castle?”
    â€œHeartbreak Castle or not, we’re all looking for happiness, aren’t we?”
    He eyed me with great curiosity. “Yes, we all are, whether we find it or not. It’s the journey, not the destination, right?”
    It was as if I’d just engaged in a Zen conversation with a high monk somewhere on a deserted mountain.
    â€œWhat is your research about?” he asked.
    I didn’t want to say that my field was witches and shamanism because