Koan

By Tim Gorichanaz

Though S. Abbey of Santa María Miraria is in the middle of Madrid, the monastery predates the city by centuries. The place has always been known for miracles, and even today you'll find a smattering of abandoned eyeglasses and crutches on the front step. Maybe that's why fifteen-year-old María Teresa attends Mass there—because she's praying for a miracle of her own.

María Teresa is the daughter of one of Madrid's most wealthy businessmen, and she's been promised to marry Guillermo, the son of another tycoon. It's not that María Teresa doesn't like Guillermo, but she is already in love with someone else, her longtime friend Álvaro. Caught up in a flurry, María Teresa finds herself in the beds of both her suitors. As misfortune would have it, she becomes pregnant. Her parents demand to know who the father is—and for reasons unknown even to María Teresa, she blurts out the name of the parish priest.

Her parents confront Father Xabier, and he does not deny the allegations. Instead, he promises to care for the child. The news gets out and rumors fester, and soon parish attendance falls, Father Xabier is excommunicated and the centuries-old monastery of miracles is dissolved.

Here, María Teresa's father sees a business opportunity, her mother sees juicy gossip, and Maria Teresa herself only sees torment. And Xabier... He sees a new life for himself—one he never imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Gorichanaz
• Release date: Jan 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370125937

Tim Gorichanaz

Tim Gorichanaz (b. 1989) is a writer and PhD student in information studies. Originally from Wisconsin, he currently lives in Philadelphia with his cat, Toaster. When he's not writing, he is running.

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Koan

Tim Gorichanaz

Text Copyright 2016 Tim Gorichanaz

All rights reserved

Contents

Chapter One: Business Arrangements

Chapter Two: S. Abbey of Santa María Miraria

Chapter Three: Wax & Pollen

Chapter Four: Rumors

Chapter Five: Fire

Chapter Six: Whispers

Chapter Seven: A Child Is Born

Chapter Eight: Many Lives

Chapter Nine: Life After Life

Chapter Ten: An Unacceptable Paradox

Chapter Eleven: Wonder

Chapter Twelve: Agony and Ecstasy

Chapter Thirteen: Una Mala Noche La Tiene Cualquiera

Chapter Fourteen: Pawns

Chapter Fifteen: Revelations

About the Author

You know the sound of two hands clapping.

Tell me, what is the sound of one hand?

Hakuin Ekaku

Chapter One: Business Arrangements

Did you have fun tonight?

Yeah, said María Teresa, looking at her shoes. She hadn’t really been listening. Instead, she was thinking about tomorrow—and what she was going to do. She was thinking about the monastery—and the miracle she so desperately needed.

Come on. Guillermo nudged her. It wasn’t that horrible, was it?

She blushed. No, she said, shaken from her thoughts. I had fun. Dinner was nice.

Well, said Guillermo, I’m glad you liked the food at least. Hopefully in time you’ll enjoy my company, too.

I do enjoy your company, she said, trying to soothe him. It would have been true a few months before, but not now.

Sometimes you don’t act like it.

Sorry. It’s just—

I understand. You don’t have to explain. It’s just the situation we’re in. But we should try to make the best of it, otherwise we’ll both be miserable.

I know…

Do you like me at all? It was the first time he’d sounded uncertain all night. She looked up at him. Even his hair, short and black and usually so disciplined, was wavering onto his forehead. He was still handsome.

Guillermo, she said. Of course I like you. You’re a perfect gentleman.

Just not… what you were hoping for?

I don’t know. I don’t think I was hoping for anything.

You think too little of yourself.

I mean, I didn’t really have any expectation.

I know what you’re saying. It’s not like either of us has a choice, anyway. He smiled. After a moment he added, A terrible way to look at life, perhaps, but it’s the truth.

They continued walking, but neither said anything for a while. Both were pretending to casually take in the sounds of Madrid at night, though really each was desperately trying to figure out what, exactly, would be the most appropriate thing to say next. It was the truth, as Guillermo said, and some truths had sharp corners that just couldn’t be softened.

Still, what beautiful night sounds they were: the muffled bass lines from bars and restaurants, fading in and out as they passed by, the din of conversation of the people gathered outside the bars, the patter of footsteps going every which way, with the here-and-there notes of high heels striking the ground, uneven as their wearers navigated the cobblestones. The pleasant melodies of someone toying with a guitar in the plaza a few streets down, growing louder at intersections, and the chatter of the partiers drinking in the streets, all underlined by the whir of automobile engines and punctuated every so often by a honking horn or siren.

Here we are, linda, said Guillermo, coming to a halt. Are you sure you want me to leave you here? It’s dark. I can walk you home. It’s no problem, really.

See? A perfect gentleman. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Goodnight, Guillermo.

Goodnight. They kissed on the cheeks. Not that it was really kissing, seeing as no lips touched skin—they smacked instead at the air. It was the pragmatic goodbye of friends, and there was nothing romantic about it, not so much as a lingering gaze. Thus it was hardly befitting as the parting gesture of two people who were destined to be married.

Then again, María Teresa had no interest in marrying Guillermo—none whatsoever—and so it was hardly to be expected that she should express any romance in her goodbye, especially given the delicate nature of their relationship: Urged on by their parents, they’d been seeing each other for almost a year. María Teresa was at first, if not delighted, at least charmed; Guillermo was María Teresa’s first boyfriend. But things had taken a turn for the worst after one uncomfortable night in late April, not long after María Teresa turned fifteen. It was now June, and the situation between María Teresa and Guillermo hadn’t much improved.

Even if she didn’t have ambivalent feelings about Guillermo, María Teresa wouldn’t have tarried in getting away from him tonight—she was already late for meeting Álvaro.

She turned toward home and walked tentatively, checking over her shoulder until Guillermo was out of sight. He had a habit of suddenly reappearing after they parted for the night; tonight it would only delay her further. As he walked away, she saw him fish what could only be a pack of cigarettes from his pocket—he didn’t think she was watching. Once he was gone around the corner, she turned toward the park and doubled her pace.

María Teresa and Álvaro always met at the same place: their rose garden. They called it theirs, anyway. But then, so did every other couple that lingered over its public tiles. Long had it been the purview of Spanish lovers to meet in flowery gardens under cover of night—ever since the Middle Ages, when the Moors began designing and installing them, perhaps for that very purpose.

Álvaro was waiting on their usual bench, twiddling his thumbs. His head was bowed only slightly, but his shaggy hair obscured his face entirely. María Teresa wasn’t often late, but he had no reason to think he was being stood up—not like that poor sap sitting on the far bench. The guy looked positively dejected, and Álvaro couldn’t help but feel bad for him. But there was, of course, the awkwardness of sitting alone amidst the coddles and coos of all the other couples in the rose garden, their hands wandering around each other’s bodies and their lips making slobbering suction.

Are you waiting for someone? said María Teresa as she approached Álvaro.

Well, I was, he said expansively, but you look much more beautiful than her. That dress. María Teresa was wearing her newest dress, and she was charmed that he noticed. I think she forgot about me anyway. Or maybe she’s off with another guy. Hey, you wanna take off before she shows up? He stood.

I’m sorry, Álvaro. Dinner went longer than I planned.

It’s okay. I was having fun here.

She looked around. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Anyway, he said, I get it. You like him better than me—it’s fine.

She sighed. That’s not it at all. She idly fingered the skin above her upper lip.

Girls don’t usually spend long evenings dining with guys they don’t like.

Usually. Anyway, it’s not that I don’t like him. Just not in the way we’re… supposed to, I guess.

I know, believe me. And I know you’ll be marrying him soon enough—and not me. I’m just happy to be with you when I can.

Álvaro… Before she could go on, he put his arms around her and silenced her with his lips. He smelled good: musky, manly. They embraced, and for a while the only thing that existed for each of them was the other. But that was an illusion, and it faded soon enough. She became aware of the roughness of his face against hers, and it reminded her of the fuzz above her upper lip. She feared that one morning she’d wake up to see it had darkened into a full-on mustache—she wanted to shave it, but she’d heard that would only make it grow back darker. She pushed Álvaro away.

I can’t do it, she said. None of it. I can’t do this anymore. She sat down on the bench. It’s like they’ve got my whole life written out for me and I’m just along for the ride. But it’s not even a fun ride. Life shouldn’t be like that.

No, you’re right. But maybe it’s just your outlook. I mean, they didn’t tell you to be here with me right now, did they? And look where you are.

Álvaro, she said, suddenly solemn. Did you ever get the feeling that… the world was made for a different sort of person?

Don’t say things like that.

But I can’t help it. No matter what I do—it’s just not right. It makes me angry just thinking about it. But sometimes… Sometimes I just don’t want to be here anymore. They were silent for a few moments.

Mari, I’d be heartbroken if you weren’t here anymore.

It’s not you. You know that. It’s—everything else. I just can’t take it. I don’t know what to do.

The only thing you can do: Take it one day at a time. Hey, school’s almost out. It’ll be summer vacation. We can see each other more. That’ll be nice, won’t it?

Today I woke up and I felt so sick. It was a weird feeling, like there was something foreign inside me. My head was pounding. I thought I was going to puke. And all I could think about was having to go to dinner with Guillermo. All day at school, just pam pam pam.

You know, I read that negative thoughts can manifest as physical sickness. Maybe that’s it.

I just want to feel better.

Cheering up would be a start. Look on the bright side: You got a good dinner, didn’t you? Better than at home, and you didn’t have to pay for it.

Her mouth perked up. I suppose. She paused. How can you be so strong, Álvaro?

We’ve gotta try. That’s all we can do, isn’t it? If we don’t try, what else is there?

I think I’m getting fat, too. Maybe I just need to stop eating.

No, that’s not the answer. And you’re not getting fat. You’re more beautiful than ever. He gave her waist a loving squeeze. She chortled. I mean it, he said. And look at that face: You’re practically glowing.

Well, that’s still only part of the problem. She let out a great sigh. I want to do something—fight back—but it’s just… everything keeps adding up. It keeps getting worse. I pray to God every night to go easier on me, to lighten my load a little, and it just keeps getting heavier and heavier. I don’t know how much more I can take. Sometimes I wonder if God’s even listening.

Maybe you have to ask in Latin.

Shut up.

Sorry.

Sometimes I think—you know—it’s up to me to lighten my own load.

There is something to be said for taking your life into your own hands. To make things happen instead of just letting them happen. You’re the only one who can make the real decisions in life, you know.

There’s one thing that I know would work. But it’s scary.

Oh, no, said Álvaro, realizing what she meant. No, no. Come on, get up. Let’s go for a walk. That’ll cheer you up.

The garden was circular and labyrinthine; the rose bushes formed the walls of the maze. For María Teresa, the slow walk along the winding path was a fragrant reprieve from the thorns of her life. But it was only artificial. Roses didn’t really grow in the shape of mazes. She clasped Álvaro’s hand tightly as they went. The rose garden was one of the many sections in Retiro, the large park in the center of the city, replete with fountains, manicured hedges and a proliferation of walking paths. At this time of night, the park at large was populated with slow-walking, murmuring couples, much less romantically aggressive than those inside the rose garden. María Teresa was happy to join them. She usually liked the rose garden, but when it was crowded like this she couldn’t wait to get out—those people stirred up bad memories.

As they emerged onto a wide gravel path, the full moon was clearly visible in the sky ahead.

There’s the medicine you need, said Álvaro. You know, I read that Japanese people spend a lot of time looking at the moon. They say it heals the spirit.

Japanese people?

It’s worth a try, at least. I don’t think it can hurt.

It is pretty, isn’t it.

Just like you.

But evil.

What do you mean?

Well, she said, you have the sun and the moon. One has to be good and one has to be evil. So which one’s which? The sun comes out in the daytime and the moon comes out at night.

That doesn’t mean that it’s evil, though.

But evil things happen at night.

Maybe the moon is the speck of good amidst all the evil. Like the last thing in Pandora’s box.

What’s that?

You’ve got to be kidding me, Mari. We just talked about this in Señor Gozalo’s class.

Oh, she said, somewhat embarrassed. María Teresa was never much for school, and she often daydreamed out of boredom in world history. She’d only signed up for it because of Álvaro—he loved the class. Remind me, she said.

After Prometheus brought fire to the humans, Zeus gave Pandora—she was the first woman—a box as a gift. She opened it, and all these terrible things came out—theft, murder, greed—and they spread throughout the world. Pandora was horrified by what she’d done.

But it wasn’t her fault.

Still, she felt like it was. If she hadn’t opened the box—

But she didn’t know what was inside.

Well, she wouldn’t be the last woman to feel bad for something she had no control over. He smiled at her. Anyway, after all those evils left the box, there was still something in there: hope. And that’s why, even though there’s evil in the world, we can still have hope. Even though it’s dark, we still have the moon.

I don’t believe in that mythology stuff.

Oh, Mari. Álvaro grew quiet. I know sometimes it can seem like there’s no hope in the world… But there’s always hope, you know. That’s the truth. That’s why I’m still here.

What I mean is I don’t believe all that stuff actually happened.

But belief doesn’t enter into it; it’s just the way it is. You can’t not believe in stars or raindrops; they’re just there. It’s the same thing.

That’s not what I’m saying. I mean, it couldn’t be true—it goes against the Bible.

Does it?

The Bible doesn’t say anything about Pandora. Jesus hated the Greeks. They were the pagans.

But what about Adam and Eve? It’s the same thing. Eve took a bite out of the apple and that brought evil into the world. Do you see?

Whatever. I don’t want to talk school right now.

But it’s… He faltered. Never mind. His face betrayed his frustration, but it quickly relaxed.

María Teresa was eager to put it behind her, too. I guess the moon looks pretty, though, she said, evil or not.

So are you feeling any better?

Maybe a little.

I want you to know something, Mari. He stopped walking, and so did she, and they turned to face each other. The moon watched.

What’s that?

I love you. And I would miss you so much if I couldn’t see you anymore.

I love you, too, Álvaro. She looked away, ashamed.

They allowed their spirits nourishment for a few minutes, walking in silence beneath the glow of the moon. It was getting late—they both knew it—and they directed their steps toward María Teresa’s piso. If she got home too late after midnight, she’d have hell to pay—and worse, questions to answer. For all her parents knew, Álvaro was out of the picture, and she had spent the whole evening with Guillermo. But if she got home too late, it would raise her parents’ suspicion. Or, God forbid, they might call Guillermo’s parents. As painful as it was cutting her time with Álvaro short, seeing as it was the only good part of her life, she knew that if she pushed her luck too much, she’d never be able to see him again. Her father was a powerful man; if she provoked him, he’d see to that.

The shops on Serrano had long since closed, and the bars here and there were serving their last vermouths and wiping the tables, the decadent old clientele winding down their conversations. María Teresa and Álvaro turned onto Mari’s street and passed a number of closed shops and residential entryways. They slowed as they closed in on her building. It was austere and somewhat nondescript, the kind of place you’d miss easily if you weren’t looking for it. A look inside, though, revealed unmistakeable luxury. A diamond chandelier hung in the entryway, and sculpted Greek replicas posed against the walls. The marble floor was freshly polished, there were flowering plants in every corner and the porter stayed on duty the whole night through.

They stopped outside just before the doorway so that they porter couldn’t see them—he’d be the first to spread gossip. What are you doing tomorrow? said Álvaro.

Church, said María Teresa. And then I don’t know. Some homework, I guess. Poetry—it doesn’t make any sense to me.

So I’ll see you at school?

Yeah.

Okay. Have a good Sunday, then.

You too.

Can you do me a favor, though?

What’s that?

Try to be happy. You have a lot to be happy about, you know.

She attempted to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. It wasn’t that easy, but she couldn’t explain why. Álvaro was too logical, and some things in life just didn’t make sense that way. Okay, she said. They kissed a lingering goodnight.

Good evening, señorita, said the porter. He was looking up at her over his spectacles, his hands folded atop his protruding belly. He was waiting for a response before he could revert his attention to the newspaper in front of him.

Hi, Nacho, said María Teresa.

A bit late, isn’t it?

Not too late.

He smiled. Off to bed with you. A young lady needs her sleep.

She smiled back—another grimace—and made her way toward the elevator.

Sleep well, he said as the elevator door began closing.

Outside, Álvaro turned to go once he saw María Teresa disappear into the elevator, stepping quickly away before the porter could catch a glimpse of him. He headed home, shuffling back down Serrano and into the adjacent neighborhood, which was much less affluent. The eminence of the buildings around him accordingly shrank as he neared his home, a good number of them in disrepair. Here, renovations were limited to the buildings in the roundabouts, with their historical, sculpted facades. No proprietors would bother spending money on the lesser buildings. The residents weren’t worth it.

Droves of glittery prostitutes hung under dark awnings, and they called to Álvaro as he passed. Deep in thought, he didn’t have ears for them. He followed his familiar tracks to his building, which was quaint and comfortably middle-class, with no marble sculptures or potted plants to speak of. His family had enough money to live, but nothing extra. Remarkably, Álvaro’s parents so valued education that they sent him to an excellent private school, the same that María Teresa attended. They were one of the poorest families at the school, but they didn’t let it bother them.

Álvaro greeted his mother, who was still up reading in her frazzled robe. She asked if he wanted a piece of fruit or some crackers with cream cheese, but he said no and that he’d see her in the morning. As he lay in bed, he thought about what María Teresa would be doing right now. He hoped she was okay. He pictured her, stepping lightly in her house—he’d been there once before and could picture it exactly.

The Colmenars lived on the top floor in the largest piso of the building, though the ones below it were by no means small. The elevator opened directly into their home, and María Teresa crept through the entryway and living room toward her bedroom, hoping not to arouse the attention of anyone who might still be awake and should find her arrival time inappropriately late. She thought of Guillermo and Álvaro—the night—her situation. Her thoughts wandered to what she was going to do tomorrow, the leap of faith she was about to take. She hoped it would make things better, but it was scary all the same.

The house was pristine, as usual. They had it cleaned twice weekly, not that it was necessary. The furniture was freshly oiled; the lemony scent, thick and pungent, reached almost into the elevator. The floor had been waxed, too, and it was almost slippery. The place was quite large, offering much more space than a family of three could conceivably need, but there were so many things—extravagant things—that there was no free space to speak of. There were elegant terra cotta pots of that held bushes and trees, all manicured. A vase of flowers without so much as a drooping petal sat on the dining room table. There was also a short pile of papers, probably documents from the flower shop María Teresa’s mother owned. Even these were stacked exactingly. The other surfaces—end tables, coffee tables and pedestals—were adorned with shiny artifacts and large hardcover books, mostly on botany. There were also a few tall bookshelves upon which sat innumerable other books, all more for decoration than information, and the remaining space was crammed with a few more vases of flowers among so many polished statuettes, pedestals and priceless trinkets that anyone who tried to count them would find their head spinning. All of the furniture, down to the most innocuous ottoman, was made specifically for the space—María Teresa’s father had them specially commissioned from a carpenter in his pueblo—and everything was exactingly arranged to align with the pattern of the parquet floor. The curtains were all drawn to the exact same level, contributing to the room’s harmonic composition. The whole piso reeked of unnecessary expense, luxuries that the Colmenars could afford because there was nothing more pressing or essential that demanded their money. But for all the well-intentioned harmony, and despite the piso’s vast size, the place was so stuffed with objects that one would have to be forgiven for thinking that it was, indeed, too small after all. María Teresa’s mother had been heard complaining about this numerous times. With a larger space, she said, there’d be more room for the other things she wanted to buy.

Mari, is that you? It was her mother, emerging from her bedroom. She had long dark hair and a narrow, pretty face—an older version of María Teresa. She was wearing a set of cream-colored silk pajamas with lace trim. She looked tired.

Yeah.

How was it?

Good.

I’m glad. Going to bed now?

Yeah.

Okay. Good night.

María Teresa could tell by her mother’s tone that her father wasn’t home yet. If Rodrigo had gotten back already, Sofía would have sounded more relaxed, perhaps whispering so she wouldn’t wake him. She had been staying up, waiting for her daughter and husband to get home before she’d be able to go to bed herself. Though it wasn’t by any means usual, it wasn’t uncommon for Rodrigo to get home between one and two in the morning. Sofía always waited.

Don Rodrigo Colmenar Santander was an important man, and with importance came late nights at work, dinner meetings, events—with more frequency than his wife Sofía would have liked. But it was because of these late nights that she could afford the luxurious lifestyle that she found so comfortable, and so she put up with it—though, if pressed, she might admit to preferring less money and more time with her husband. A bit less money, anyway. As it was, though, she spent much of her time waiting for Rodrigo to get home, and sometimes her mind took her to dark places. After all, Sofía didn’t know what, exactly, he did on a daily basis—he didn’t talk much about it—and whatever it was generally left him stressed and exhausted. She had to wonder if he was up to no good. But then, that was the price one must pay for such things. For as long as there have been circumstances, there have been trade-offs.

Rodrigo was the reason the Colmenars had such nice clothes to wear. Not only because his job made enough money to buy good clothing, but because the company he’d built just happened to be a clothing company. A decade prior, Rodrigo looked to the successful American and Italian brands and determined to do something similar in his own country. He knew next to nothing about clothes, but he had good business sense, and he surrounded himself by people who knew the textile and fashion industries inside and out.

Rodrigo was a professional schmoozer. He began by moonlighting outside his brain-dead office job, buying lunches for any manager or mogul who would answer his calls. His circle expanded, and soon he added designers and models to his repertoire. By the time he’d saved up enough to open a small store with a limited collection, he knew all the right people. He did not set out to create an empire—just a small store, maybe a few across Spain, that specialized in quality ready-to-wears that could rival the handmade wares of yore—but he underestimated his penchant for