Sara Felicidad, who barely fit into the narrow confessional, waited for hours for the homages to cease, and when the supplicants left, walking backward, to eat and sleep around the bonfires, accompanied by the priest, who provided an example by putting up with the glacial wind right along with them, she left her hiding place. She went to check if the doors were locked, approached the altar, climbed up right next to the Virgin, and, using extreme care, removed her crown, her mantle, and her gown. Sara Felicidad spoke to the Virgin in silence, knowing she would hear her:
“They all never stop asking you for things. So it’s necessary for someone to give you something. I’m not asking for anything. Your infinite goodness moves me. You’ve spent so many years here granting your grace that you must be tired. You’re smiling, but your shoulders support the weight of our suffering humanity. Allow me, please, to take care of you. I am going to massage your stone body in order to remove the invisible film formed by the pain of others.”
And Sara Felicidad began to massage the Virgin’s cold back, her chest, her stomach, her arms, her legs, and her head. Little by little, the stone warmed and after a few hours reached the temperature of human flesh. My mother continued her labor until she thought she could hear, beneath the Virgin’s small breasts, the beating of a heart. She redressed the now-living statue and received her thankful gaze. The Virgin of the Carmen accepted her services and made Sara Felicidad her personal maid. Drunk with joy, she ran to hide in the confessional again. The sun had come up, and the multitude was impatiently pushing the doors. No sooner did the parish priest open them than the leaders entered, placed themselves at the service of the Virgin, and then announced the order of the guilds. These in turn entered one at a time on their knees to offer burning candles, not concerned that the hot wax was burning their hands.
After dancing for five minutes, they left, always walking backward, to allow the next group to enter. There were so many, and the air was so steamy that Sara Felicidad, worn out from all the effort she’d put into the massage (she’d put her soul into every caress), fell fast asleep. No one and nothing could awaken her, not the canticles of the processions, not the drum rolls, not even the explosion of more fireworks.
She opened her eyes the next morning. A great sadness possessed the plaza. All of the pilgrims, with wild eyes, piled onto the vehicles that had brought them and began their return to their place of origin. The priest locked the doors of the sanctuary with two huge locks and left with them. A soft wind brought a cloud of dust, and my mother, still wearing her angel costume, was left alone, without food, water, or a place to sleep.
Three months passed. The priest, accompanied by Doña Pancha, a vigorous devotee all dressed in black, arrived from Iquique in a small station wagon filled with brooms, feather dusters, scrub brushes, pails, rags, soap, and a barrel of water to commence the trimester cleaning. Almost a mile away from the sanctuary, they began to hear the buzzing of bees. There seemed to be thousands. They counted about a hundred honeycombs hanging from the branches of the few trees in the area. The activity of the insects was incessant. They entered and left through the church towers.
In the semidarkness of the dawn, the priest and his assistant, pale with emotion, saw a glow arise from the windows. The house of God seemed full of light. Doña Pancha clutched her rosary and began to exhale a long prayer. They could clearly see that the two huge locks were intact. Through the cracks, coming from within the church, came the penetrating aroma of violets. When they opened the two doors of carved wood, they were assaulted by a vast wave of perfume, and for a moment, pleasure stopped their breathing.
It was hard for the priest to believe his eyes. Doña Pancha wept like a baby. The candles were lit! Those tons of candles offered to the Virgin three months earlier were still burning with their brilliant tongues of flame without being consumed. The myriad branches of carnations looked so fresh they seemed to have been placed before the altar that very morning. Next to the Virgin of the Carmen, a girl, blonde and naked, was deeply asleep. The priest recalled the angel that sang with the voice of a celestial trumpet. He looked around. The church was clean, the floor shone, and the bees came to feed at the flowers that had become perennial.
“A miracle,” muttered Doña Pancha.
The priest, rapping his knuckle on her head, said, also in a low voice, “Quiet, woman, this may be the Devil’s work. Run to the station wagon and bring me my spare cassock.”
Sara Felicidad awoke smiling.
While the devotee dressed her, the priest, his back to her, asked, “Tell me, my girl, who are you? How did you get into the church when the doors were locked? The windows don’t open, and the little holes through which pass the ropes for ringing the bells only let the bees in. How long have these candles been burning? Why don’t they melt? What did you do to keep the carnations from wilting? And there is neither food nor water here, so how did you live?”
My mother, who by now measured six feet seven inches in height (she would subsequently grow another three inches), bent over toward the priest and placed her hands below his nose. The man jumped back in horror. From those smooth palms, almost devoid of lines, arose the intense perfume that invaded the temple. When she tried uselessly to speak, musical notes instead of words came from her mouth, which smelled like honey. The priest thought, quickly and intensely. The beauty he was witnessing was too great to be demonic. A shame, because it was easier to expel a devil than an angel, but there’s a remedy for everything, even miracles, so better roll up the sleeves and take the saint by the halo. He picked up the old lady, who had fallen to her knees and was striking her chest, and said in severe tones, “Listen here, Pancha, let’s talk things over man to woman. For fifteen years, you’ve been at my heels. You bring me my chocolate in the morning, and you put out my lamp at night whenever I fall asleep reading. You are more than my housekeeper, and if it weren’t for the chastity imposed on us, you would have been my wife long ago. And it would have done you a world of good, because as a recalcitrant spinster you’ve begun to sprout whiskers. Face the facts, woman: what brings you close to the altar isn’t God but hormones. You’re in love with me. Easy now! Don’t faint! I’m speaking to you in this shameless fashion because the situation is serious, and you’ll have to make a choice. I’ll make it clear: you have to choose between God and me. I recognize that the Virgin has produced a miracle, and that this mute, feeble-minded girl may be a saint, but political interests sometimes have to take precedence over religious interests.
“The festivals at La Tirana arouse faith and spread our religion among the people. Any instruction given in the name of the Holy Virgin of the Carmen is obeyed in all points. We’ve found a way to absorb the ancient indigenous superstitions, and the annual carnival channels the despair of the miserable workers, which is so great, toward hope. The calm and endurance our Lady gives them are elements essential for the proper development of Chilean society. For that reason, everything must go on in the same way. This young woman, so beautiful, blonde, white, tall, pure, and witness of a prodigy in the eyes of the miners, could become the Virgin incarnate, a new Messiah, a catalyst for the masses. They won’t settle any longer for coming here to dance and march past the idol. No, they will take the angel away from this place to transform her into the leader of who knows what kind of revolutionary army. Peace in this country, which is as tranquil as a paradise, will end, and chaos will ensue. Do you understand, Pancha? Either you run off to tell about the miracle to all the faithful or you shut your trap and stay at my side, promising me you will never reveal our secret. Well then, make up your mind: God or me?”