Catalina by Markus Orths

'Who are you?' asked Juan.

Catalina was still shaky on her legs, wet and messy, an unlicked calf. In the cave she had taken a decision, but she had not yet given a thought to what her life would be like now, how she would behave towards other people, what exactly she would do or say, what kind of manner she would adopt. She parted her dry lips to reply, without thinking at all of disguising her voice, without reflecting that now, as a man, she would have to give it a darker timbre: she completely forgot that her light, girlish voice, accustomed to praying, trained through singing and seldom raised above a sharp whisper, would betray her the moment she spoke to anyone. Awkwardly she managed to get her tongue moving, said 'I…' and then stopped short, taken aback by the sound of her voice, which had dropped of its own accord to a lower pitch. 'I…,' said Catalina, and gave a start, because her silent cross-country march, the time spent in the cave, the long hours without speaking, the thirst, the lack of sleep, all of those things had lent her voice such a dark tone that for a moment she herself thought someone else was speaking from inside her.

'Who are you?' asked Juan.

Now Catalina took her time. She needed to clear her head a little, to collect herself and put her thoughts in order so that she could see her way more clearly. She was glad that her own voice was helping her, reminding her who she was, or rather who she wanted to be.

'I'm…,' she said, and broke off.

Had she any chance at all? Wasn't it ludicrous even to try? What good were the altered clothes she was wearing? What good was any new name she might adopt? Wouldn't it be easier to put an end to all this before it had even begun? Wouldn't it be simpler to say, 'Catalina', and tell him the whole story? But when she thought the name 'Catalina', she felt, for the first time, that she was thinking of someone else.

'…Francisco,' Catalina said.

She was giving it a try. She put all her strength and conviction into that name. Nonetheless, she fully expected that the tall, black-haired man facing her would, with a single word, bring the fragile, new, unconvincing self that she had created crashing down. 'Francisco,' Catalina said-her voice hard, dry, deep-and she could already hear the stranger laughing and saying, Francisco?-no, a girl can't be called that. 'Francisco,' Catalina said, and waited for his annihilating response.

'Francisco?' asked Juan. 'Francisco who?'

There was no disbelief in his voice, no doubt. The man repeated the name she had given herself, accepting it at face value. When Catalina heard the name spoken by another, it began to seem strangely real, solid and tangible. If he believes it, Catalina thought, then everyone else will too. And if they believe it, so can I.

'Francisco Loyola,' she said.

This came from somewhere deep inside her. She could not think what had suggested that particular name. She had been standing stooped and cowed before the stranger, but now she straightened up, a plant stretching towards the sun.

'What are you doing here?' asked Juan.