The House of Impossible Loves (2 page)

“I am. Though it might be hard to believe, I was once as beautiful.”

“I would like to ask your permission—or her father’s—to take Clara for a ride.”

The woman laughed out loud.

“You’d have to go a long way to ask her father! I’m the one to give permission in this house—me and only me, and my mother before that, may she be rotting in peace.” The dark pupil of her right eye flickered. “You’re a hunter.”

“Indeed.”

“Then you should buy an amulet from me.”

The woman turned back inside, returning with a boar’s tusk covered in partridge feathers.

“I assure you, young man, that with this, the animals will come to you. All your shots will find their mark.”

The young man handed her a few coins.

“You can take Clara out. My daughter does what she likes, but judging by the dress and shawl she’s wearing, I believe she’ll accept.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Madre. I put these on to go to the square. But since you’re here, let’s go for a ride.”

The landowner mounted his horse and helped Clara on behind.

“There’s an oak grove not far from here. I could show it to you if you like.”

Following her directions, the Andalusian led the horse into the pine forest, away from the road with its carts and coaches. The wind was cold that morning, and gunshots could be heard far off in the hills.

“Gallop.”

“It’s too dangerous among the pines.”

“Coward,” Clara declared, her face damp.

The young man shook the reins, and the horse began to gallop. The animal’s hooves pounded against the mossy, fern-covered ground. She held on to the Andalusian’s waist, felt his strong back. He had never ridden like he did that day and would remember it always: his arms tense as he steered around trees and over the rocks that rose up between them, eagles soaring in the mist, his horse whinnying whenever it slipped on a bed of needles, his own perspiration. A soft drizzle blanketed them, his thighs firm against the horse’s flanks and Clara’s against his. When they reached the last few pines scattered at the foot of a hill, a storm erupted.

“The horse needs to rest.”

“It’s not much farther to the grove.”

As the horse climbed the hill, Clara let go of the landowner’s waist, her arms aching. From the highest point, they could see the outline of the valley below, the tops of enormous oaks. It was pouring rain. Lightning lit up the ground, now a muddy red. The Andalusian shivered under his cloak, and Clara pressed against his back to warm him.

By the time they reached the grove, the fog had dissipated, the thunder and lightning had ceased, the wind had died down, and the clouds had parted, giving way to a translucent light rain. Before dismounting, Clara Laguna pulled off her amulet and put it in the pocket of her dress.

A river ran through the grove, its waters forming eddies and pools. Clara found shelter under a worn old oak at the river’s edge; she leaned against the trunk and waited for the young landowner. He was soon by her side, running his fingers down her neck to the soft depression where the amulet had lain; it was now filling with rain. Clara took his hand; his palms had been cut by the reins.

“You’re hurt.”

He gave no reply but lifted her chin.

The Andalusian landowner returned to his inn for lunch. A young boy led his exhausted, puffing horse to the stable. One of his servants helped him remove his boots and wet clothing and lit a fire. He sat next to it eating garlic soup and stewed partridge and drinking red wine, then he fell asleep in the armchair until late afternoon. As soon as he woke, he went to check on his hounds. They nuzzled him with their snouts, relieved to finally be out of their pen.

“Soon. We’ll head to the woods very soon.”

The sky had cleared after the storm, twilight slowly giving way to darkness peppered with a thousand stars. The streets filled with the aroma of stew, and there was no sign of the old women who sat and watched the hunters. The Andalusian headed to the tavern in the square. The burbling fountain with its three spouts reminded him of Clara Laguna. His yearning for her had not abated even during siesta. He had promised to take her for another ride the next morning and could not wait for dawn to come.

The tavern was thick with tobacco smoke. Mounted stag heads hung from the rough whitewashed walls. An enormous rack over the stone fireplace caught the landowner’s eye. Before meeting Clara Laguna, he had dreamed of such a trophy. He walked over to the bar to wait for a table. Two locals finishing their wine saw him and called to the barmaid. The woman, a redhead they affectionately called La Colorá, was drying glasses with a rag.

“Dinner, señor?”

“If possible, a nice roast goat.”

“The tavern is very full, but if you like, you could sit with those gentlemen from Madrid.” She pointed to three young men at a table by the fire. “They’re a nice group of hunters.”

“As long as they don’t mind.”

The barmaid was right. The Andalusian spent a pleasant evening; they ate roast goat, drank four bottles of red wine, and swapped hunting stories. As the landowner bade his companions good night, the barmaid, clearing tables, intercepted him.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Excellent. You’ve been most kind. Thank you.”

“Then let me offer a warning, señor, and please don’t think me insolent. I’m just a goodhearted woman who sees danger ahead. It seems you’ve been spotted with the witch’s daughter. You know who I mean, the girl with the flaxen eyes.”

Desire flooded his heart like poison. She placed a hand on his forearm.

“Clara is cursed, beautiful though she may be. Cursed, and good and cursed, like all of the women in her family. I swear.” She kissed her thumb and index finger, an oath promising a secret kept.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Don’t they have curses where you’re from?”

“We have our superstitions, señora.”

“Well, what you call a superstition, here is a curse as big as a pile of dung—especially when it comes to the Lagunas, and to Clara, who is the last of her line. As far back as the town can remember, every single one of the Laguna women has been cursed.”

“So the men in the family are not.”

“Men!” She slapped her thigh. “What men? The belly of a Laguna has never carried a male. Not one of them has ever married, either. They’re doomed to a life of disgrace, to bear only girls who will suffer the same fate.”

“And no man—”

“Not one,” the barmaid interrupted. “Not one man has dared break the spell. Keep in mind that only misfortune will come to any who tries.”

“What sort of misfortune?”

“No one knows for sure. They say that years ago the Laguna witch, as she’s called, tried to cast a spell on one but failed, and was left with a blind eye.”

The next morning, the moment he woke, the Andalusian landowner recalled his conversation with a burly man who had walked him back to the inn in his inebriated state.

“Oh, I understand,” he said. “Me and every other man in this town. If only the Laguna with the flaxen eyes weren’t cursed . . .”

It was the morning of All Souls’ Day. After the first church bells rang, the fog dispersed and the townspeople came into the streets in their Sunday best to honor their dead. Flower stalls had been set up on every corner of the town square. Women dressed in mourning attire sold red and white carnations, daisies, even a few roses to the rich. On one side of the church, a cobblestone path led up a hill. Beyond the last of the houses, a dirt track continued on. Shrubs along one side bordered the cemetery. Tucked into a portico on this hill, the Laguna witch was selling lilies sprinkled with a potion to ensure the spirits stayed buried in their graves. Women in whispering skirts and veiled hats, men in corduroy pants and berets passed. Many stopped, avoiding their neighbors’ eyes, to buy one of those lilies, sparing them a visit from a relative’s soul.

The cemetery was bordered on three sides by cypress trees. Half a dozen family vaults bore the same coat of arms as the noblemen’s homes, and the rest was a jumble of graves. As the crowd filed in, magpies greeted them with caws and bright shiny wings. Every headstone was scrubbed clean before prayers and flowers were offered. Women scoured the gold-lettered epitaphs and oval portraits, while men pulled weeds. Those whose dead lay in a vault brought their servants to clean with hands already chafed and red. By noon, the cemetery smelled like a freshly mopped floor.

The Andalusian spent the morning recovering in his room, drinking coffee and recalling the barmaid’s warning about the Laguna curse. Meanwhile, Clara sat at home waiting for him to take her for a ride.

After lunch, the landowner set out with the hunters from Madrid. More than once his hounds followed the scent of a stag, but when he had the animal in his sights, crouched in the bush, the rifle would begin to shake in his hands. The flanks of his prey became Clara’s mane of chestnut hair, and the stag would disappear into the woods. Nor did he catch any of the rabbits his hounds tracked. The yellow beech leaves so like Clara’s eyes made him forget why he was even there. He sat on a bed of ferns, damp seeping into his pants, his rifle silent on his lap. The hunters from Madrid wondered what was wrong; this man had traveled half of Spain to hunt in Castilian lands and now dragged himself around, unable to fire a shot.

The four of them returned to town when the forest swallowed the sun. The Andalusian declined their invitation to dine at the tavern, excused himself, and had his horse saddled. Within minutes he was digging his spurs into its flanks and galloping off.

A ghostly full moon lit the way to Clara Laguna’s house. Her mother had gone to town, entering kitchens and sitting rooms through back doors to predict the future of the living and the dead. The landowner found Clara sitting in the dry streambed, next to the pearl-shaped tomatoes. He walked down to the rocky ground muttering, “So what if she’s cursed, and so what if I can do nothing to change it.”

Clara stood up the moment she saw him, her face stained with tears. The Andalusian sank to his knees and sang a folk song, disturbing the sleeping stray dogs near and far. It was a warm night for All Souls’ Day. Clara threw a stone at him, opening a small gash on his forehead. He felt the slow trickle of blood and began to intone a
saeta
. The moonlight shined intensely, and Clara threw no more stones. Instead she looked at the landowner’s blue-black hair, his bloody forehead, his olive-black eyes. She kissed him and cleaned his cut with the hem of her dress. He did nothing to stop her. Then he took her by the waist and helped her up onto the back of his dapple-gray horse.

They galloped to the oak grove, dismounted, and kissed. Stepping on the animal-shaped shadows projected by the trees, they came to the river. He took off his cloak, laying it on red soil where his wound dripped blood. Clara removed her wool shawl and the amulet she had put back on that morning. The wind stripped them of thoughts of spells, his cartridge belt, her petticoat, his hunting pants. Their bodies sank into soft earth, and as she listened to the murmuring water, the pain of her first time tasted of river moss.

T
HE ANDALUSIAN STAYED
until the first snows of December. He and Clara met in the oak grove, their preferred place for lovemaking. Only when the wind froze their faces did they seek refuge in her house. Clara’s mother would leave for town, hauling her sack containing the bones of a cat, and they would frolic among pots used for potions and jars of magic ingredients in that house that had only one room. The lovers went to his room at the inn once, but Clara was uncomfortable in that bed with its starched sheets, warmed by the fire, where crackling logs reminded her of the townspeople’s chatter.

Everyone was whispering about Clara Laguna and the young Andalusian: the widows in church, counting their rosary beads, gossiping in their huddles of black shawls; the kitchen servants of noble homes, and their ladies in lace-filled parlors over
café con leche;
the young women at the fountain, jugs perched indignantly on their hips, and at the river, washing clothes; the men in the stables, in the fields with their oxen, at the bar over an anisette.

One evening the landowner went to the tavern after a successful hunt where he downed a stag. His rifle finally held steady and the animal’s flanks no longer reminded him of a mane of hair, for he knew Clara Laguna was waiting, and she was a trophy much more beautiful than any rack. After he’d waited awhile at the bar, La Colorá seated him at a table alone. His hunting companions had returned to Madrid.

“How about a nice plate of pig’s ears?” she asked.

“And a good bottle of wine. I want to celebrate my catch.”

“I hope the hunter is not being hunted. You didn’t take my advice.”

“You should know a man is sometimes reluctant to give up certain things. Now, bring me those pig’s ears. I’m hungry.”

The Andalusian savored his meal, the wine, and the look of envy in other men’s eyes. That young landowner had achieved what most wanted but never dared attempt, or had been spurned when they did.

The afternoon before leaving town, the Andalusian headed to Clara’s. She was waiting at the bottom of the dry ravine. Since their affair began, she had taken him to the most scenic places around: fields of wheat and barley, cobalt mountains where vultures soared overhead, green pastures with winding paths and shepherd huts in the distance. But that last afternoon, Clara wanted to show him a place that appeared fleetingly in her dreams. A few miles from town, along the gravel road that crossed the pine forest, was an abandoned estate. The manor house was two stories high, topped by an attic. Despite the grime and mildew, the exterior was still a vivid red. An enormous yard surrounded it, protected by a stone wall. Out front, vegetation crept up stables, twisted around troughs and corral fences. Weeds filled hard beds of hydrangea and morning glories, surrounded the trunks of peach and pear trees and a chestnut tree that cast its shade over a stone bench. Out back was a garden where tomatoes and squash grew out of sheer habit. Farther back, the foliage grew thicker in a whirl of honeysuckle with a clearing in the middle; beyond that was a lilac grove and a wild rose garden.