Novelist and short story writer, linguist, philosopher, and professor, Harold C. Raley holds degrees (BA, MA, PhD) in English, Foreign Languages, Humanities, and Philosophy. Named Distinguished Professor, he has taught languages, literature, and philosophy in American and foreign universities. His publications include fourteen books of fiction, history, language, and philosophy, and approximately 150 articles and essays on wide-ranging topics in professional journals and newspapers.

These are tales of fortune and forfeiture, happiness and hazard, love and deceit. Some stories are set in specific times and places but not confined to them. Others arise in the mere vastness of the world and belong anywhere applicable or nowhere definitive. For wherever there is human life, there are the yearnings, dreams, possibilities and impossibilities we call tales and stories. For this reason, I do not think of myself as their creator, but only their author or perhaps their channeler. I say this because the people who come to life in this book do not always behave as I wish and plan. I push and they push back. Which is why I am as surprised as the next person by what they decide to do and who they choose to be. Perhaps their way is best. For if the decisions were left up to me, most likely I would be their tyrant. As it is, I end up being their friend.

These are tales of fortune and forfeiture, happiness and hazard, love and deceit. Some stories are set in specific times and places but not confined to them. Others arise in the mere vastness of the world and belong anywhere applicable or nowhere definitive. For wherever there is human life, there are the yearnings, dreams, possibilities and impossibilities we call tales and stories. For this reason, I do not think of myself as their creator, but only their author or perhaps their channeler. I say this because the people who come to life in this book do not always behave as I wish and plan. I push and they push back. Which is why I am as surprised as the next person by what they decide to do and who they choose to be. Perhaps their way is best. For if the decisions were left up to me, most likely I would be their tyrant. As it is, I end up being their friend.

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These are tales of fortune and forfeiture, happiness and hazard, love and deceit.

The Tattletale Letter

It seems that everything mysterious soon becomes mundane. Let me illustrate what I mean by retelling an account based on an incident I found tucked away in an old Spanish chronicle.
Because most Native Americans had no written language, they were mystified by the scratches on parchment to which early Spanish conquistadors and missionaries attached great importance. When they asked about the odd markings, the Spanish explained to the native people that they were words. This caused even greater confusion. How could they be words, the Native Americans reasoned, if they made no sound, yet could be heard by the Spaniards over great distances? The only words they knew were the ones they heard spoken, nothing they could see. Since these soundless words seemed illogical to their cultural way of thinking, in the beginning of their dealings with the Spanish, they looked on writing as a form of magic and regarded it with superstitious awe. To them it seemed that the marks on the parchments could hear and see in their silent, mysterious way and then tell others what they knew. At first, they could conceive of no way to get around these magical missives that seemed to know everything yet uttered not a word that a normal person could hear. But awed or not, the native people started to seek ways to outwit the conquerors’ magic.
Finally, two runners thought they had hit on a workable tactic. It began when the Catholic Prior they served ordered them to deliver a letter and two strapped-on baskets of delicious fruit—apples, oranges, mangos, bananas, berries, and nuts—

from their fertile Peruvian valley farms to the commandant of a Spanish fort in the Andes. The journey was long and the young runners, increasingly tempted by the succulent fruit they were carrying, lusted for a taste.
“If we eat the fruit, the letter will tell the commandant and we will be whipped,” whispered one runner so the letter could not hear him.
For a long time, they jogged on in their tireless trot, ascending ever higher along the twisting mountain trail. Finally, one of them stopped, excited by an idea that might allow them to outsmart the all-knowing letter.
“If we hide the letter behind a tree or a rock while we eat without saying anything,” he explained “it won’t see or hear what we’re doing and can’t say anything to the Spaniards, can it?”
“Who knows, brother? I want a taste of the fruit as much as you do, but I fear their magic even more.”
But eventually hunger wore down his reservations and the two hid the letter and silently but happily ate some of the fruit. But when they reached the fort, the commandant read the message, checked the baskets, and asked about the missing fruit. Naturally the frightened men at first denied any knowledge of it but finally had to confess they had eaten it. The commandant ordered his lieutenant to whip them. But before their punishment, one runner asked the commandant how he knew about the fruit.
“Señor Comandante, we hid the letter, so it couldn’t see or hear us, so how could it know what we were doing?”
The amused commandant replied with a straight face, “Oh, but the letter knows anyway. Our letters always see and hear everything, so don’t lie again. This time you get off with only a whipping. If you do it again, your punishment could be much more severe. And beware; the letters will be watching you.”
The sore and chastened runners jogged back to the valley and spread the word to their kinsmen. The warning worked, but not for long. In time the Native Americans caught on and began to master the mystery of the written word themselves.
As I said, the mysterious soon becomes mundane.

The Gold Coins

Many stories have come down to us from ancient times of Hasan ibn Al-Rashad, at first Satrap and then Sultan of Damascus. He was famed throughout the caliphate and neighboring kingdoms for his astuteness in battle and his benevolence as the ruler of a vast empire. He was the terror of his enemies, who were no match for his tactics in battle, and revered by his subjects, who believed themselves favored of God for his firm but benign rule. He judged men by their character, not their religion. Though himself devoted to the teachings of the Prophet, of whom it was said—though not by him—that he was a descendant, at times he chastised the powerful imams themselves for their mistreatment of his subjects, including non-Muslims. For he dispensed evenhanded justice to Muslim, Jew, and Christian alike. The following story of the bag of gold coins illustrates why he was so highly esteemed.
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A poor streetsweeper appeared at the entrance to Sultan Hasan’s magnificent palace and with considerable trepidation asked permission to plead his request for justice before the mighty ruler himself. At first dismissed because of his slovenly appearance and the Christian crucifix hung about his neck, he persisted and was finally admitted to the court of the great monarch. When it came his turn to speak his grievance, he declared that while cleaning away debris collected before the mosque he uncovered a bag of gold coins. And learning that a

wealthy merchant had posted a handsome reward for the finder, he hurried to his establishment to collect it. The merchant received him, eagerly took the bag of coins, and hastened to his private quarters to verify its contents. Then he returned to the expectant sweeper. But instead of rewarding him for his honesty, the merchant berated him for thievery and demanded that he return the missing coins.
“But I took nothing from the bag, your grace. The bag and its contents are as I found them,”
“How many coins were in the bag when you uncovered it?”
“Thirty-five, by my count, your excellency, and I removed none.”
“Liar! There were only thirty in the bag you returned to me! On my order my servants will now forcibly remove you from my property, and you may thank merciful Allah that I do not have you hauled before the magistrate and punished more severely for your crime!”
So saying, the merchant summoned his servants who beat and kicked the poor sweeper, leaving him bruised and bleeding in the cobblestone street. Thus, instead of being rewarded for his honesty, he was abused for his trust in the merchant’s fairness.
Sultan Hasan listened attentively to the poor man’s account, for not only did he dispense justice without regard to the rank and station of his subjects but acted in such matters as quickly as possible. For he could read the hearts and thoughts of men and was able to discern at once their honesty or deceit. Thereupon he sent a messenger to the merchant with orders that he present himself immediately at the court with the bag of coins.
Shortly thereafter the merchant arrived with the bag in hand, and Sultan Hasan asked him for details of the matter.
“By the Prophet, great sovereign, I am the victim of this man’s chicanery. Some time ago I lost a bag of gold coins, earned in the lawful and honest transactions of my business. The man standing there in your august presence brought this bag to me in hopes of receiving the reward posted for the finder. But first he stole some of the coins. Five were missing. When this became known to me, I had him thrust out of my establishment, for I cannot abide dishonest men in my presence. Thus, it is evident, great lord, that instead of a reward for returning the bag, he deserves punishment for stealing the five missing coins.”
The sweeper paled at the merchant’s words. For who was he, a mere streetsweeper and Christian besides, in comparison to the wealthy merchant?
“Let us examine the matter carefully and with due deliberation, said the Sultan, for it seems that something is amiss in the details presented before us. To begin with, how many coins say you, esteemed merchant, were in the bag when you lost it?”
“Thirty-five, may it please you, great sovereign.”
“And how many coins now remain by your count in the bag the sweeper delivered to you?”
“Only thirty, great lord.”
“Let us now count the coins ourselves, lest there be some mistake. Bring the bag to us.”
A servant hastened with the bag to the sultan, who then carefully counted the coins.
“It is as the merchant said: we count only thirty coins. Now let both merchant and sweeper again count the coins.”
Once this task was completed, the sultan asked both men the number of coins in the bag.
“Thirty,” said the merchant, sure that the Sultan was about to decide the case in his favor.
“Thirty,” intoned the saddened sweeper, fearful that the great lord was about to rule against him.
“And do both men swear by what is most sacred to them that what they say is true and exact?”
“I so swear, supreme sovereign,” said the merchant.
“I swear before you, great lord, that my words are true,” declared the sweeper.
“Thirty then it is by all counts here rendered and sworn to us in this court, and verified by our own inspection,” Sultan Hasan concluded. “Now then let us see the consequences of this number sworn and agreed to singly and severally.
“First: if this sweeper were a thief, he would have behaved like a thief by keeping all the coins and returning none. For the worth of the whole exceeds by far the sum of the offered reward. Second: it follows, therefore, that the bag presented at the court is not the one the merchant lost. For he has sworn that his bag contained thirty-five coins and that the bag found by the sweeper holds only thirty coins. We accept his account, for we cannot doubt the sworn word of an upstanding merchant, nor what we have seen with our own eyes. Third: since it is obvious that the sweeper is not a thief and the bag is not the one the merchant lost, our judgment is as follows: (1) the merchant shall continue to search for his missing bag of coins, thirty-five in number, and be ready to grant a fair reward to anyone who may chance to find his lost property. And (2) inasmuch as no rightful claimant has come forth to claim ownership of the thirty coins the sweeper found, they shall be his to keep. So we have ruled and so it is decreed.”
The honest sweeper went on his way happy with his thirty gold coins and grateful to God for the wisdom and fairness of the Sultan. For his part, the dishonest merchant returned glumly to his affairs, lamenting the loss of his thirty gold coins but powerless to reclaim them because of his sworn declaration and the Sultan’s decree.

Doña Francisca’s Dress

Of the Spanish aristocracy still residing in Mexico after independence from Spain in 1824 none was more beloved of the common people of Mexico City than Countess Francisca de Braganza, widow of Don Caspar de la Huerta y Figueroa. The elder sister of one of the last Spanish viceroys in Mexico, she not only outlived her wealthy husband and famous brother Don Miguel . . . but imperial Spanish hegemony as well. Many Spaniards returned to Spain when the war of liberation severed links with the mother country. But others, including Doña Francisca, remained in the Aztec Republic, bound by commercial ties and family sentiments that after many years of residence in Mexico were now more Mexican than Spanish.
Always generous and charitable toward the less fortunate of the great capital, Doña Francisca became even more lavish in her donations after her husband’s death in 1825. She contributed to every good cause and no few bad ones. In this philanthropic endeavor she received guidance and advice from Father Domingo Olmedo of the Franciscan Order. Though still young, he was admired throughout the great city for his inspirational homilies, sage advice to his parishioners, and not least, his remarkable physical handsomeness. Perhaps with dubious motives in some cases, many high-born ladies prevailed on him to be their spiritual mentor.
But if Doña Francisca was among those who sought him, there was no question about the pure caliber of her faith and philanthropy. Nor was her largesse dispensed at an abstract remove from the populace. Often, she would order the driver to stop her carriage in busy avenues and send him with food or coinage to help the hungry and destitute she saw on her daily rides about the city. Her fame spread widely among the poor, and crowds of beggars followed her carriage with piteous clamoring and scuffling for alms while her harassed driver tried to negotiate his way through the ravening horde. Indeed, the motley mob at times pressed so forcefully against the carriage that it was in danger of toppling over. These scenes horrified her family, but Doña Francisca herself enjoyed the tumult and smiled beatifically through the raucous scenes.
Her children, Don Plácido de la Huerta y Braganza and Doña Matilde de la Huerta de Vela, were distressed by her largesse, fearing that she would dissipate her fortune and leave them penniless and socially déclassé. And even though her friends loved Doña Francisca, they also complained privately that her indiscriminate handouts were creating public nuisances by emboldening the beggars to form a veritable host of aggressive undesirables. Indeed, rumors spread that even persons of adequate means dressed themselves as beggars to take advantage of the grand dowager’s generosity.
But mercifully, before she could reduce the family to penury and the aristocratic district around the Alameda Park to turmoil, Doña Francisca died peacefully in her sleep in 1833, a few days past her ninety-fifth birthday. Whereupon Doña Matilde quickly shed misgivings about her saintly mother’s legendary generosity and determined to honor her memory with the most elaborate funeral imaginable. Like mother now like daughter, for she had also came to depend on Father Olmedo for spiritual guidance and counsel.
Crowning the funeral pomp and ceremony was the extraordinary dress Doña Francisca wore to her grave, the same one the grand lady had donned as a bride on her wedding day many decades earlier in the golden age of the Mexican viceroyalty. The dress was the epitome of luxury such as high fashion decreed in Doña Francisca’ s distant youth. It was a metaphor of wealth and creativity, the acme of earthly beauty set to vie against mortality’s implacable destructive tide. To the elegance of French Enlightenment style was added the baroque splendor of Mexican opulence: bows cunningly bordered with gold; silver pendants, broches, and bracelets; gold rings inlaid with precious stones, a pearl necklace worth a king’s ransom; a bejeweled tiara that not even Aladdin’s magical genie could have surpassed, and, finally, the costliest accompanying laces, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.
Thus, amidst an opulence that beggars description, Doña Matilde sent Countess Francisca to her eternal reward like an Egyptian pharaoh supplied with enough riches, so it would appear, to live eternally in full magnificence, seemingly giving lie to the hackneyed saying that the deceased can take no worldly riches with them into the Hereafter. By all accounts, it was the most extraordinary funeral in the history of Mexico City.
Father Olmedo gave it his full blessing: “Such extraordinary outpourings of piety and generosity ought always to be held up as worthy examples for all believers to emulate as their means allow,” he told Doña Matilde and Don Plácido. “In this way, you shall make it possible for our beloved Countess Francisca to inspire in death what she did so nobly in life.”
Thus bedecked in unsurpassable splendor, Countess Francisca lay in state in her casket as thousands of mourners bade her a sad but glorious farewell. Father Olmedo’s funeral eulogy was a thing of pathos and beauty that left not a soul unmoved, nor hardly a dry eye in the cathedral. Her passing was more than a personal death, he reminded them. “With her,” he said with surpassing eloquence to the weeping mourners, “there has passed away an age of grace and grandeur such as the world has never seen before and may never see again.”
Then her casket was conveyed before the teary multitudes to her tomb, and after burial and dispersal of the last mourners, the sexton locked the family mausoleum and pocketed the key.
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Although Dona Francisca’s exemplary life and all it signified was over, her story was not yet finished. Hear now its final chapter.
Almost coincidental with Doña Francisca’s extraordinary funeral, a traveling company of French ballerinas performed in Mexico City. Though perhaps not of the first rank by European standards, the company’s lead ballerina was famous for her exciting pirouettes and the brevity of her attire, which allowed more provocative glimpses of flesh than Mexican custom of that era sanctioned. Hence the public’s eager anticipation of the performance. And as if this enticement were not enough, the spicy rumor circulated that not only had she danced before European royalty but also had performed in more intimate ways with certain princes.
True to form, she made her stage entry with a series of extravagant spins and twists. Then prancing across the stage on tiptoe she looked at the audience, awaiting their applause. But instead of an ovation, there arose a murmur of horror and not a few boos from the indignant public. For there before their very eyes danced Mademoiselle Marie Sabouret, she of dubious fame, clad not in her customary brief attire but wearing the bejeweled dress in which saintly Countess Francisca was buried!
As soon as the final curtain fell, police authorities surrounded the defiant and indignant Mlle. Sabouret and escorted her offstage for interrogation. Where and how did you come by this dress? they asked her. She insisted that she bought it with her own money—a not inconsiderable amount of her money—at a French dressmaker’s shop in Mexico City. She had disturbed no grave, she vehemently declared, and was horrified by the very thought of such a sacrilegious act. Next the police authorities questioned the dressmaker.