The House of Impossible Loves (17 page)

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was the fever, the cold, kissing you in the snow just once a week. It made me crazy. I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Did she cane you?”

Olvido lowered her eyes.

“I’ll kill her. If you ask me to, I’ll kill her right now and we’ll move to the city.” Esteban felt the rock in his pocket, Olvido’s finger on his lips, followed by a kiss.

Off in the distance, the new church bells began to ring in the frozen air—not a glorious melody, more of a funeral march. Suddenly, a cloud of gunpowder filled the room. Wearing nothing but a clean pair of gloves, her breasts hanging down to her belly, Manuela Laguna stood holding the rifle from the attic.

“So you’ve come back to fuck the honor of my home, have you, boy? All right, if that’s what you want, we’ll take this as far as it goes.”

Olvido stared at her mother’s pubic hair.

“If you let him go right now, I promise I’ll never see him again,” she begged, placing herself between Esteban and her mother.

The boy gripped the rock in his pocket so tightly, a sharp edge cut his finger.

“Shut up. Clearly you inherited Clara Laguna’s bad blood, and it’s going to cost you dearly.”

Manuela clicked off the safety and brought the gun to her shoulder.

“Move.”

“Madre, please. Let him go.”

“Not on your life.”

Manuela slammed the rifle butt into her daughter’s temple, and Olvido crumpled to the floor. A small stream of blood obscured her vision. It’s all a dream, she thought; I’m lying in the honeysuckle clearing. Esteban’s voice attacked Manuela: “I’ll kill you, you witch! I’ll kill you!” A shot rang out, gunpowder speckling the seascape on the wall. Maybe it’s a battle between pirate ships, Olvido thought. It’s all a dream; tomorrow we’ll kiss in the oak grove on top of the snow. The springs in the old chair creaked. Her mother had sat down with her legs spread and was delivering an ultimatum: “Fuck me or I’ll kill my daughter.” Shot in the arm, the boy pulled down his pants, today I made lemon pie but it burned because I was thinking of you, Olvido murmured, tomorrow I’ll make apple pie and bring you a piece at work, but he was rubbing his penis with a reluctant hand, you’ll savor it and I’ll lick the crumbs from your lips. The boy walked toward Manuela, quaking, tomorrow we’ll forget all about this, come, kiss me, tomorrow we’ll bathe in the river no matter how cold it is, Olvido begged, a bullet entered the rifle chamber, her mother fired and the bullet punctured the ceiling, I said fuck me, boy, he vomited and backed away from Manuela toward the window. Don’t worry, my love, tomorrow the church bells will play a love song, come, let me lick the sawdust from behind your ears, let me lick your splinters, he opened the window and the late-March cold cleared out the gunpowder, come, let me kiss the whorl at the back of your neck, let me kiss the dimple in your chin, the rock fell out of his pocket onto the floor, Manuela laughed, you were going to hit me with that, I’ll teach you how to kill, another bullet entered the rifle chamber and she shot him in the gut, come, come, Olvido screamed, Manuela approached with the rifle aimed at the boy’s chest, when no more than a breath away, she threw it on the floor and pushed Esteban out of the window, his skull smashing on a rock below, tomorrow . . . Olvido moaned . . . in the oak grove, you’ll look at me with your gray eyes . . .

T
HUNDER CRACKED AND
split the sky, clouds piled one on top of the other, night closed in darkness. Olvido walked over to the window. Rain pelted her face and a gust of wind froze her cheeks. She started to shake when she saw Esteban’s body in the yard, immobile, a red halo around his head, sanctifying his death. She furrowed her brow—wanting to tear anger, pain in two—and a permanent crease formed between her brows, a crease that transformed her into an adult beauty. Olvido felt dizzy. She closed the window and contemplated the moonless sky through the glass, Esteban’s body being mourned by the shrouded stars. The cut on her temple still bled, dripping onto her chin, her dress. She crumpled to the floor, fainting.

Her mother had left the room, slamming the door in triumph. She would go back to bed on the first floor and sleep soundly now that there were no more gray eyes in town to ruin her plans for the future. Manuela finished grooming a cockroach she had set in perfumed water before undressing and heading to Olvido’s room to restore her honor. She tied a crimson leash around the insect’s swollen body. Then she pulled the drapes closed and crawled between stiffly starched sheets. It was then she sensed it for the first time, rising from her stomach to her breasts, that smell of fear, that smell of sex the boy exuded.

Dawn came earlier than usual that winter morning verging on spring. It was as if the sun, after the moon’s suicide, did not want to leave the world orphaned any longer. An orange glow slowly lit up the wintry mountains, turning white as it hit Scarlet Manor, wrapping the boy’s body in a shroud. Esteban already belonged to the yard. A gleaming puddle lay coiled on his belly, and a poppy sprouted from his lip. His blood and thick brains were frozen on the moss like morning dew. The storm that assaulted the night was still reflected in his eyes.

Olvido felt a stabbing pain in her temple when she woke. A trail of dried blood ran down her face to her neck. Her lips trembled to the tempo of memory; her teeth began to chatter. The light of a new day flickered in her icy, mourning heart. She got up and stumbled over to the window. Her mother was coming down the stone drive in the cart, the black horse trampling daisies. Behind her was another, larger cart. A beam of sunlight fell on the two occupants. They were thin and dressed in black. This procession shattering the dawn stopped beside Esteban’s body. Manuela got down from the cart, pointing to the boy’s pants around his ankles. Her mouth contorted in hate. One of the men took notes, while the other stared at the body being consumed by that yard. A daisy sprouted from Esteban’s inner thigh. A few minutes passed before the men dared wrap the body in a blanket the same color as their mules. Esteban left the yard to the bump and creak of wood, but the abstract painting of his death remained on the moss for a long time to come.

The morning remained pale. Olvido pulled a chair to the window and sat cross-legged, holding vigil over Esteban’s absence as a wintry river seized her bones. She heard the pines rustle and recalled her first outing with Esteban on a bed of needles. She had no desire to eat or drink; she did have to pee but refused to move. Urine soaked her buttocks and thighs with a warm sense of well-being. She listened to the caws of a magpie that coveted her tears. The fruit trees and wild roses shook in the yard.

By afternoon, Olvido had begun to shake. Her damp nightdress clung to her skin. She wanted to get up and change, but her limbs had fallen asleep after so long in the same position, consumed with sadness. When she did manage to rise she decided to go out into the yard, and nothing would stop her. She pulled off her nightdress, pulled on a wool dress and coat. From the hallway, she could hear the crackle of wood in the hearth. Carrying her boots, she walked down the stairs and into the yard. She kneeled on the moss stained by her lover’s remains. She pulled out a pair of scissors and cut her bangs, then the tresses that hung to her waist. Clumps of hair fell on the icy red moss. The wolf’s howl returned, as did the steely cold. Olvido knew it was useless to look for the moon. Clouds crowded the last light of day, and she gave in to exhaustion. She laid her head on the moss, and death pricked her cheek. I will never forget you, she thought, pressing her body deeper into the moss, and I will never live again.

Manuela Laguna told the Civil Guard she’d heard noise and shouts coming from her daughter’s room; that’s why she went in with the rifle, only to find the boy trying to rape Olvido. He was strong and threatened Manuela with a rock. She fired twice: once in self-defense and once to defend her daughter’s honor. The boy opened the window to escape but fell into the yard. In order to guarantee this version of events and ensure that the guards did not interrogate Olvido as a minor, Manuela donated a good stack of pesetas to the municipal coffers. But despite being locked in by her mother, Olvido escaped early one morning and went to the station on a narrow street just off the town square. She was wearing only a nightdress, a wool coat, and boots with the laces undone.

“My mother killed him,” she told a policeman. “She killed him because he loved me and I loved him.”

The policeman looked at this girl, thinking she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, even if her blue eyes were glazed over and her skin pale.

“He didn’t, the boy didn’t try to hurt you? You know, rape you?”

“He was my lover,” Olvido replied, and she left the station, shuffling her feet.

After that, Manuela had to give even more money to the municipal coffers for Esteban’s death to be deemed an accident. According to the police report, Manuela Laguna found the boy in Olvido’s room late one night with his pants down and believed he was trying to rape her. The boy threatened Manuela Laguna with a rock, so she was forced to shoot him.

The townspeople learned of the secret relationship between the Laguna with the hats and the schoolmaster’s son, but it did not tarnish his name and he was given a Christian burial next to his father.

By the end of that winter, the cemetery groaned under the weight of snow and all the headstones for fallen soldiers. Magpies sat in cypress trees, waiting for funeral processions. Local legend said that their feathers grew shinier the more pain they observed. Like the birds, Olvido spent two days waiting for the town’s most recent casualty. She slipped out to the cemetery at dawn, even though her mother had caned her when she went to the Civil Guard, and the town learned that this Laguna, shielded from dishonor by her hat, had a secret lover. She spent the day among headstones, crosses, and family vaults, filling her stomach with snow, reading Saint John of the Cross. She walked back to Scarlet Manor by starlight and curled up in Clara Laguna’s bed, with at least the smell of oak to keep her company. On the morning of the third day, the funeral procession appeared at the cemetery gate. Olvido sat in the same spot where she had watched the schoolmaster’s funeral, observing the cluster of black as it gathered around the grave. Esteban’s mother and sister formed an impenetrable wall once again. Only this time the boy constricted in his corduroy suit and mourning armband was not there. Instead he was in a wooden box being lowered into the hole as Padre Imperio, his hands shaking with age, swung the silver mace and spat Latin.

When only the magpies remained, Olvido stared down at daisies left on the grave. High in the sky, the sun illuminated the remnants of a white winter and mildewed headstones. Esteban would have to get used to the damp of infinity. As magpies soared over family vaults, their wings like mirrors, Olvido threw herself onto the grave and lay there for hours, feeling the earth’s heartbeat, listening to the whisper of the worms. Only when the sun set did she gather a handful of daisies and go home to Scarlet Manor.

Manuela Laguna was working on her needlepoint in front of the fire when she heard her daughter arrive. The girl’s icy steps crossed the tiled entryway and climbed up to Clara Laguna’s room. Manuela wanted to grab the cane and throw Olvido out of that forbidden space. A log disintegrated on the fire, and Manuela sensed in her chest the Galician woman’s black braids, her eucalyptus heart, her stories, and settled back onto the couch. Later, she thought.

Meanwhile, Olvido placed a bouquet of daisies on the bed and said: “Abuela, I brought you flowers from Esteban’s grave.”

In the garden it began to snow. Olvido let her wet clothes fall to the floor. She sat under the canopy and opened the window Clara had gazed through as she waited for the Andalusian landowner.

“I’ve come here to die, with you.”

An icy wind carrying swirling snowflakes assailed Olvido’s nude body as she lay calmly on top of the daisies. That last winter storm would return her to her lover’s arms. Several minutes passed as the purple muslin danced like it had in brothel times, as Olvido laid shivering, clutching daisies to her chest and belly. Traces of Clara Laguna’s silk robe rose from her dressing table as two yellow eyes shone in the wind lashing the room and the window slammed shut. The sound of the river in the oak grove bounced off the walls like a loud roar of laughter. Olvido sat up, her stomach cramping furiously. Only then did she realize it had been two months since her last menstruation.

“You’re expecting his daughter.” Olvido recognized her grandmother’s voice clawing her insides, and one word erupted in that oak-filled room:
revenge
. The mirror on Clara Laguna’s dressing table shattered. Olvido furrowed the now permanent crease in her brow. She had to live for the child she was expecting—the child who would ensure that Manuela Laguna never forgot what she did to Esteban. She pulled the heavy quilt over her body. “That’s it. Save yourself to exact your revenge,” Clara Laguna said inside. “Flaunt your pregnancy in town, up and down the streets, up and down, with no hat to hide the truth of your eyes, your cheekbones or lips. Let the old women in black shawls and their daughters see you, let them whisper that the curse continues, for another Laguna is pregnant and lovesick.”

Olvido curled up on the pillow. “You’re right, Abuela. The dreams Madre had for my future will never come true. There’ll be no marriage to an aristocrat or children whose last name is not Laguna. It will be as you wish: our family legend will cause tongues to wag once again.”

“Yet another Laguna alone and pregnant,” one old woman will say to her daughter, adjusting her shawl.

“Probably a girl, too.”

“And the schoolmaster’s son is the father.”

“Dead now.”

“Yes, father and son both dead.”

“Maybe they kill them after they mate.”

“But aren’t they condemned to suffer for love?”

“Serves them right, the whores.”

“Yes, and all because Manuela prances around town like a lady, smiling and offering donations to mask her shame. Twenty years ago, she spread her legs for five pesetas.”