Through a Glass Darkly
Chapter 8
The inn was not a building so much as a mass of mortar and stubbornness. It stood at the edge of the village, a low structure of rough-hewn stone that seemed to have grown out of the hillside rather than built upon it. The walls were thick, bleached white with age, and smudged with the soot of wood fires. The windows were like small, deep-set eyes that looked out beneath a heavy brow onto the dusty courtyard. Inside, the air was heavy with scents: wood smoke, dried herbs, the decay of curing ham, and the earthy, damp smell of the dirt floor that had been pounded hard as concrete.
Gertie's room was a cell at the end of a hall, with a low ceiling, although the view from the small window was a delight. The bed was a sturdy oak frame with a straw mattress that smelled of lavender and must. An oil lamp burned on the nightstand, casting shadows against the plaster walls.
It was a room of stark simplicity, devoid of the plush velvet and heavy drapes of the Villa Lindenhof. Here, there were no mirrors of silvered glass, no velvet drapes to muffle the sound of the world outside. Just stone, wood, and the silence of the Spanish countryside.
It was a welcome respite. The hard road behind her, the hard road ahead, the weight of her commitment—all felt a world away in this small, comfy room.
Presently, there was a knock at the door.
"Supper, señorita!" a voice called out. It was enthusiastic, warm, and with a thick, rolling accent. "Come, the soup is ready!"
Gertie smoothed her skirt, checked her reflection in the small, tarnished mirror, and opened the door. The innkeeper stood there, a stout, robust woman of middle age, her face crisscrossed with laugh lines. She wore a simple, floor-length dark dress, her apron stained from cooking. Her hair was a mat of graying curls, pinned with a wooden comb. She smelled of garlic and thyme.
"Come," the woman said, gesturing with a ladle. "Do not stand there like a statue. The soup is hot, but not for long."
Gertie followed her down the narrow corridor. They entered a room adjacent to the kitchen, a space that functioned as both dining hall and sitting room. A single, heavy wooden table dominated the center, scarred by knife marks and the heat of hot pots. A few rough-hewn chairs were scattered around it, and a small fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the room.
"Sit," the innkeeper commanded, pulling out a chair for Gertie. "I made soup. Sopa de ajo. Garlic soup. It is good for the soul, and for the road."
The innkeeper went to the stove, a large heap of brick that burned wood. She ladled a generous serving of the steaming, orange-hued broth into a ceramic bowl. As she carried the dish to the table, she paused. With a casual, almost unthinking motion, she dipped her index finger into the soup, stirred it once, and then put the finger in her mouth. She smiled, a wide, toothy grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"Just right," she said, her voice warm and confident. "And not too hot."
Gertie stared at the bowl, her eyes wide. She was stunned, a sudden reflex to recoil. In Germany, in the high society of the Villa Lindenhof, such a thing was unthinkable. A person did not touch their food with their bare hands, let alone dip a finger into a communal pot. It was unhygienic, a breach of every rule of etiquette she had ever been taught.
"What's wrong?" the innkeeper asked, grinning. "You do not like my cooking?"
The innkeeper waited for an answer, then shook her head, her expression softening into a knowing, almost pitying look. "Ah," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial register. "You are from the North. You know nothing about the South. Where you are going, breaking bread is a bond of friendship. To refuse food is to refuse to be friends. Your host will be greatly offended."
"But you put your finger in my soup!" Gertie exclaimed, her voice rising in a pitch of disbelief.
"Yes, señorita," the woman said, her tone matter-of-fact, as if explaining to a child. "It was to prove it is not poisoned. If you die from food poisoning, so shall I. If I poison you, I poison myself. Simple, no?"
Gertie's pragmatism, the armor she had built around her heart, returned, again on the defensive. Was this a joke? A trick? A test?
The innkeeper continued, "Many, many diplomats—such as yourself—have died from food poisoning," her eyes twinkling with a mixture of humor and seriousness. "You must make it your first rule of conduct: never to eat what is not shared by your host and others. To share is to trust. To trust is to live."
Gertie looked at the bowl. The good aroma rose, carrying the scent of garlic and paprika. She looked at the innkeeper, whose face was open, honest, and utterly devoid of guile. She thought of her father, of her honor, of the secret mission and its hidden agenda. And she thought of the simple, brutal logic of the woman before her.
Slowly, she picked up the spoon. Her hand trembled slightly. She took a spoonful of the soup, blowing it so it would not scald. The taste was rich and savory. She was hungry, and the warmth warmed her, a satisfaction she had not known in a week.
The innkeeper watched, her eyes steady. Satisfied, she sat in her favorite armchair apart from the dining table, whitewashed wood, with a foot rest. She folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes took on a glazed look, distant, as if she were looking at something far away, something in the past or the future.
Gertie finished her soup, the silence of the room heavy with the unspoken understanding between them. She thanked the woman, who nodded, a small, respectful gesture, and then retired to her room.
Gertie closed the door, and bolted it, the heavy iron latch clicking into place with a sound of finality. She unpacked her favorite nightgown from her valise, a simple, white, long cotton shirt that made her feel like a child again.
Before retiring, she stood before the small mirror on the wall, combing her hair. The candlelight flickered, casting strange, shifting shadows on the walls. She felt secure enough to muse on her adventure.
And then, she saw him.
In the mirror's reflection, standing behind her, was a short man dressed in black from head to toe. He wore a black top hat, the brim pulled down to his eyes, and a long, black coat like a shadow. He had a petulant face, nose upturned, smirking, and a look of disdain.
Gertie froze, her hand still holding the comb. She did not turn. She knew, with a strange, instinctive certainty, that if she turned, he would be gone.
"How did you get in here?" she demanded, her voice trembling, her eyes fixed on the reflection.
The figure in the mirror did not move, but his voice echoed in her mind, clear and distinct, as if he were standing right behind her.
"I am the ghost of Francisco de Goya," the voice said, dry and rasping. "The greatest painter in all of Spain. I have come to show you the way. Follow me."
The figure turned, his black coat swirling around him like smoke, and walked toward the door. He did not open it. He simply walked through it, as if it were made of air, vanishing into the darkness of the corridor.
Gertie stood, heart pounding against her chest, holding her breath. The mirror reflected only the empty room, the oil lamp, and her own pallid face.
Follow me. His words echoed in her mind; confident, a command and a challenge.
She turned and looked at the door, still bolted and secure. She looked at the mirror, again; just an ordinary mirror. Then she knew, with a chilling certainty, that the journey was far from over.