The House of Impossible Loves (21 page)

Afternoons belonged to the lust of cooking. Olvido spent hours and hours remembering Esteban in that sanctuary of taste. Esteban’s features—the dimple in his chin, the cowlick at the back of his neck, his gray eyes—and his young body—firm thighs, sun-toasted hands, soldier’s chest—became more present in her mind. The only thing that bothered her was the smell of fresh blood from chickens massacred on the wooden table, an area she avoided in disgust. Olvido and her mother shared the kitchen but always used it at different times: Manuela in the mornings, Olvido in the afternoons. And there were certain territorial limits. Her mother was not allowed to set any entrails on the countertop where Olvido brought her ingredients to climax, and in exchange, she did not clean the sacrificial altar in case the smell of innards that reminded Manuela of her childhood should disappear.

One or two afternoons a month, Olvido had to leave her culinary paradise and go to the lawyer’s office. Dressed in flannels and silks, he kissed her neckline while confirming there were more than enough pesetas in her checking account to cover Margarita’s expenses. But as time went on and age was not kind, he grew more and more demanding.

“My dear,” he said, licking her cleavage, “if your mother finds out I am diverting funds to you and your daughter, I will be in a great deal of trouble. I’m afraid that, next time, if you don’t”—he slipped a hand under Olvido’s skirt only to find a petticoat as rigid as iron—“if you don’t come less heavily attired . . . You understand? I mean, it’s like you’re wearing a chastity belt. Yet we all know you have a daughter, and children, my dear. Well”—he pinched her thigh—“you know what I’m trying to say. Either you come prepared for the act—I cannot wait any longer—or the money will stop.”

“How much does my mother allow for Margarita’s expenses?”

“One quarter of what she needs. Your mother is not very generous with her fortune and even less so with her granddaughter. Therefore, if you do not want the girl to be mired in the hell of poverty, then come here next Monday without that chaste armor and our private arrangement will continue.”

Out in the street, Olvido took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped down her neck. Between the rooftops, autumn was beginning to show. Hunters had returned. Exhausted packs of hounds relieved themselves on the stone fountain in the square as their owners, rifles on shoulders, the smell of the hills saturating their green attire, sat drinking in the tavern. It was almost six-thirty. Olvido sat down on a bench.

Drawn by the current of modernity that surfaced in the late 1950s, Padre Rafael had set up a public address system in the church. At that time of night several speakers attached to the church and town hall as well as several lampposts along the main street would broadcast a program on religion, culture, and social concerns. The first time sound boomed through town, the old women—who watched the speakers and cables being installed, who heard Padre Rafael announce this invention at Sunday Mass—thought for a moment the good Lord himself had come down from heaven to speak, as dogs and cats scampered into ditches, eardrums aching. Excited by these new times, microphone in hand, sitting still so the reverberation of his life would not disturb the waves, Padre Rafael reminded parishioners of times for catechism, Mass, and funerals, commented on the latest film—
La gran familia—
or delighted listeners with cassettes of Gregorian chants. Once they grew accustomed to the priest’s tinny voice, the packs of hounds snuggled down and snoozed to the sacred music. Olvido had become a fan of these programs—a distraction from her solitary existence—and tried to be there for both the noon and evening shows.

“May I say that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” a hunter said to Olvido that day.

Sitting on the bench, she looked up at his damp cloak, the cartridge belt hugging his waist, his pants tucked into tall boots, his black hair and dark green eyes. A desire not her own stirred inside. Olvido thanked him for the compliment and set off for Scarlet Manor, pressing her purse to her chest to contain the tension rising in her throat as Padre Rafael’s words were lost on a liquid wind.

The next week Olvido walked to the lawyer’s office through the pine forest. She had not put on a petticoat or underwear. He sat waiting for her behind his mahogany desk in a houndstooth suit.

“Sit, my dear Olvido,” he said, scratching between his legs. “You’re looking lovely for the occasion.”

Olvido took off her coat, sat across from his desk, spread her legs, and shimmied her skirt up to her waist. The lawyer adjusted a pair of round silver glasses on his nose.

“Your secret is almost more beautiful than your face, and that is no easy feat.” His hands shook. “My dear Olvido, how often I have dreamed of this moment.”

Faced with that universe opened lusciously before him, the lawyer pulled down his pants and boxers ironed with rose water. But nothing else happened. His member shrank at such beauty, at the sight of pink mounds softly rising and falling, surrounded by a thoroughbred’s crimped mane.

Seven times, on seven different weeks, the lawyer tried to sleep with Olvido Laguna. And seven times, confronted by his own age and such divine topography, the lawyer was overcome by a wave of impotence that left him prostrate on the couch, sipping lime blossom tea. Olvido breathed a sigh of relief. Every morning she washed her vulva with well water, scrubbed it with a poppy and citrus blossom paste to enhance its magnificence, leaving its mounds as smooth and radiant as a bride’s skin.

But her nightmares were what helped Olvido break free of the lawyer for a time. Ever since her daughter moved to Paris, Olvido had dreamed of Esteban’s blood. She would wake drenched in the scent of squash and crawl under the covers, shaking. Every now and then she vomited a clear moonlight-colored liquid.

One Sunday night a blizzard thrust the smell of pines into the hearts of sleepwalkers and insomniacs alike. It ripped Padre Rafael’s speakers from the front of the church and blew open the kitchen window at Scarlet Manor just as Olvido was about to make cinnamon cake. The blizzard carried the death of leaves, the damp of mushrooms, and the solitude of a land only just recovering from adversity. The bottle of cinnamon shattered on the floor, and its perfume filled the room with the memory of Margarita. It had been years since Olvido had kissed her, held her. Olvido Laguna knew she had to visit her daughter before the nightmares engulfed her forever.

The next morning, as the town surveyed the destruction wrought by the blizzard, Olvido wrote to the lawyer:

My dear friend,

Please advise Manuela Laguna of my immediate departure to see my daughter in Paris. In the name of our mutual friendship, I must trust you to finalize the financial details of this trip, if you understand.

With heartfelt thanks, yours truly,

OLVIDO LAGUNA

“You can’t leave just when we’re becoming intimate,” the lawyer protested from behind his desk.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise. My daughter is in trouble. She needs me. Surely you understand a mother’s obligation.”

“Well, I spoke with your mother yesterday, and she did not approve your trip. Without her consent, there is no money for you to go. And if I give it to you, she will discover our secret.”

“Tell my mother that, if she gives me the money, I will marry whomever she chooses when I return.”

“What madness is this, my dear Olvido? Who would want to marry a woman with your reputation?”

“My mother will do whatever it takes to find him. Someone will want me.”

“I haven’t offended you, have I? I adore you, Olvido, but I am constrained by a fifty-year marriage, seven children, ten grandchildren.”

“I know. I wasn’t thinking of you. Propose this to my mother. Find me a good match, and I will repay you once I return.”

Three weeks later Olvido Laguna was on a plane to Paris. Looking through the window of this amazing contraption floating among the clouds, she recalled her mother’s smile as she left. “I’ll be here, waiting for the wedding,” it seemed to say. “I’ll do my petit point, tend to my roses, and butcher my chickens—and find you a husband, of course. Come back soon!”

Margarita was waiting at the airport when she arrived. This time it was Olvido who walked downstairs with a suitcase in each hand. She was thirty-seven years old, and for the first time since Esteban died, she wanted to live.

“Mamá! I don’t want us to be apart ever again. Stay with me here!” Margarita said as they embraced.

“As you wish, darling. I give in. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Then it’s settled. You’ll stay.” Margarita kissed her mother’s cheeks. “And how is Abuela?”

“Her arthritis has worsened.”

“
Arthritis
. I used to repeat that word at boarding school as I went to sleep. The other girls thought I was praying. Tell me, Mamá, does Abuela know how to write?”

“No, she’s illiterate.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course. She doesn’t know how to read or write.”

“And is there anyone who can write letters for her?”

“Only her lawyer . . . Why do you ask? Have you received a letter from her?”

“No! I’ve told you a thousand times, I just feel sorry for her. I wonder how someone like that can get by.” Margarita was pensive for a moment. “I also wanted to ask if one day you’ll tell me about my father.”

“What’s gotten into you, darling?” Olvido asked, stroking her daughter’s hair. “I’ve just arrived and—”

“I want to know more about my family. That’s all, Mamá. You never tell me anything. It’s as if you have something to hide.”

The stench of gunpowder filled Olvido’s nose. How could she tell Margarita the truth about her father’s death? How could she tell her she was born into a family burdened by a curse that would chill her bones?

On the taxi ride into the center of Paris, Olvido admired the beauty of the city. The sorrow she’d felt moments earlier began to dissipate.

Following his client’s instructions, the lawyer had booked a five-star hotel. Manuela wanted to make sure Olvido was happy, that not a single complaint would derail her plan to marry off her daughter. The lobby floor was tiled in pink and white marble; on the walls, mirrors and paintings glittered in the light of a crystal chandelier. Three women shuffling on rags were polishing tiles in step to a military beat.

Margarita checked her mother in at reception. A bellboy carried both suitcases, leading them to Olvido’s room. It was large but a bit dark, classically furnished with heavy green curtains. Margarita tipped the bellboy as he left.

“Mamá, can I ask you a question about my father now?”

“Of course.”

“Did you love him a lot? I mean, did you love him like in the movies?”

“I did, darling. I loved him like that and more. Your father was everything to me.”

“And then he fell out a window.”

“It was an accident.”

“Do you think he died just because he loved you?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m never going to fall in love.” Margarita plunked down on the double bed. “I’ve decided.”

“Well, that’s a shame. Besides, you should know by now it’s not something you can stop. It just happens and that’s that.”

“But you were unlucky and I’m sure I will be, too.”

“That makes me sad, darling.” Olvido took her daughter’s face in her hands. “There’s no reason the same thing will happen to you. Your life is completely different from mine. And I was lucky; I was so lucky to know your father. He taught me to read and write. It was wartime, and a bomb destroyed the school. Now, is this on your mind because you like someone?”

“No.” Margarita sighed and looked at the clock. “I’ve got to go, Mamá. I have a meeting at university. Rest, and I’ll come back in a few hours for dinner.”

Olvido took a shower when her daughter left. She turned the water hot, letting it cascade over her memories. In the distance, she thought she heard a bomb explode.

The phone rang at nine-thirty that night.

“Hello?”

“Mamá, were you asleep?” Margarita’s voice crackled.

“No, just resting.”

“Something’s come up at university, so I won’t make it for dinner. I’m sorry.”

“Do what you need to, darling. I’ll eat here at the hotel and see you tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

Olvido had no appetite. She walked over to the window. Through lace curtains she could see the silhouette of a full moon, lighting the sky over Paris with a milky halo. Olvido shivered. That moon was just a phantom. She knew. It couldn’t fool her, even if it did illuminate the rooftops and chimneys with its melancholy obesity. “As far as I’m concerned, you died that icy night,” she whispered, narrowing her eyes as she recalled Esteban’s last kiss and how it tasted of fear. That moon was rotting in some celestial graveyard.

Margarita spent so much time at university that Olvido had to get used to being alone again. Every day she would walk along the Champs-Élysées, around the Eiffel Tower and the stunning Invalides, carrying a newspaper or magazine in a language she did not understand. Longing for Esteban’s grave led her to wander through Père Lachaise Cemetery from the time it opened until it closed. She was fascinated by the vaults, the sculptures that adorned tombs, anchored by thick foliage. She liked to sit on one with the statue of a soldier on his knees, his jacket open to receive imaginary bullets. Olvido stuffed the soil from Père Lachaise into the pockets of her raincoat, the weight of death preventing the Parisian wind from lifting her airborne, as if she did not exist. She also spent time at the Louvre and some galleries Margarita recommended. At sunset she would sit by the window in a Montmartre café to admire the domes of Sacré-Coeur or paintings set up on easels in the square, and feel Paris gaze upon her. She would drink one, two, three, four glasses of wine, damning its blood-red color as moss from the yard at Scarlet Manor grew thick in her mouth.

One day in late February, the day dawned to a mass of clouds that unleashed a mountain rain, and Olvido’s luck changed. Margarita phoned to ask her to attend a party one of her professors was holding. Olvido noted the address and lay back in bed to wait for nightfall.