The House of Impossible Loves (42 page)

“Call the doctor. She’s in labor. This is going to be one active, intelligent child! The baby knew precisely where to be born, and the minute it arrived, it gave in to the desire to greet this world. There wasn’t even time to eat the lamb with raspberry sauce I made.”

The blond doctor, who still lived in town, who still harbored secrets in his medical bag, secrets of a lemon and baking soda cure for jealousy, needle and thread for attempted suicide, arrived two hours later. Possessed by the power of desert storms, Úrsula Perla Montoya pushed with all her might, while Santiago held her hand and mopped her brow. With every push that brought the birth closer, Olvido grew weaker. She helped the doctor, passing his instruments, bringing warm water and clean cloths. But when the child’s head appeared, Olvido’s hands began to shake, fever returned to her cheeks, and pain crushed her bones once again. She excused herself as best she could, walked into the hallway and breathed deeply until she heard Santiago say: “Abuela! Abuela! The baby’s here!”

The magic of a baby girl was born in the last light of sunset. Her eyes were open, as lucid and clairvoyant as her father’s dreams, an amber color like wheat and autumn beech trees that filled the room with the rustle of Moorish pants. The doctor picked her up by the ankles and smacked her on the bum, but she was entirely unperturbed. The girl was distracted, inhaling a whiff of chicken blood that crept in through the door, and smiled when she heard a lament in the language of the spirits that another bastard Laguna girl had been born.

“Is the baby all right?” Santiago asked.

“Couldn’t be better. She simply doesn’t want to cry,” the doctor replied in surprise.

He wrapped the baby in a towel and set her on her mother’s chest. Still flushed from the effort, Úrsula looked at her with curiosity and realized those dreams were never hers but her daughter’s, that the girl was finally where she wanted to be. Úrsula could write without sacrificing another page, could write a novel that just might be as eternal as springtime at Scarlet Manor.

Santiago leaned in and kissed each of them softly on the lips.

“A beautiful Laguna girl,” he said, staring into his grandmother’s eyes, “but she won’t suffer like us.”

Olvido, who had filled the blue arabesque basin with water, took her great-granddaughter from Úrsula’s arms and bathed her as the pain of doubt shot through her heart. This was all she had the energy to do. It was Santiago’s time now. She handed him the baby and took refuge in her room.

Olvido did not see the doctor out when he left after night fell. She lay on her bed to wait and fell asleep. At three o’clock that morning she was woken by a glorious melody as the church bells rang madly. She got up and went to the window; night air slipped in through the hole left to ventilate misfortune. As the melody grew more intense, Olvido smashed the chair against the bricked-up window. She hammered and hammered with one chair leg, splintering her nails, shredding the skin on her fingers. A blast from the pine forest tousled her hair, and the bells’ voices grew into the crashing cymbals of love. Olvido went to Clara Laguna’s room in her nightdress, where Santiago, Úrsula, and the baby slept.

“Goodbye, Clara. Take good care of them. The baby inherited your eyes, but God willing, she did not inherit our curse.”

Laughter shook the canopy.

Olvido walked down the hall and descended the stairs. Starlight slipped in under the door.

“Goodbye, Madre,” she said in the clay-tiled entryway. “We can settle our score now.” She sensed a puff of lavender escape the linen cupboard but paid no attention.

Olvido Laguna walked up the daisy-strewn drive, a bunch of virginal irises now among the hydrangea and morning glories, left the funeral bow behind, and set off down the road, following the joyous bells. The pine forest said goodbye as she went: owls hooted, beech and pine branches whistled, lichen crunched. She was soon in town. Barefoot, her feet had exchanged infirmity for the agility of a teenager. Besieged by fountain spouts in the town square, people hammered on the church door, angry about the rejoicing bells that startled them from sleep. Olvido walked by with her halo of resurrection. Not everyone recognized her—her hair had turned black, her face young, her figure tall and slim—but those who did would forget the sight only when buried in their graves.

Olvido climbed the hill to the cemetery. The gate was open a crack when she arrived. She pushed it with a trembling hand, and as emotional as a bride walking down the aisle, knowing all has been forgiven, she headed for the old part of the cemetery. Stars put orange blossoms in her hands as rows of cypress trees watched in shadow tuxedoes and magpies with shiny plumage occupied places of honor on vaults and tombs. It was then she saw Esteban waiting for her at the foot of his grave, as smooth-skinned as the young man he never ceased to be, his hair short, his stormy eyes lit up. She said his name, and before she could say “I do” and kiss him, the smell of wood shavings and sawdust overwhelmed her with bliss.

The undertaker found her dead on her lover’s grave the next morning, the body of a middle-aged woman with a smile on her lips not even the sobriety of the shroud could hide.

My thanks to Clara Obligado for all she taught me and her support as I wrote this novel. And to my editor, Alberto Marcos, for his help and encouragement the whole way through.

Thanks also to Belén Cerrada and Miguel Ángel Rincón, who took me hunting, saved me from computer chaos, and always cheered me on. Finally, to my fellow workshop writers for all the evenings of stories we shared.

The House of Impossible Loves
is C
RISTINA
L
ÓPEZ
B
ARRIO
’s first novel for adults. It has sold over 100,000 copies and rights have been sold in more than a dozen countries. She is also the author of a prize-winning young adult novel,
El hombre que se mareaba con la rotación de la Tierra
(
The Man Who Grew Dizzy with the Earth’s Rotation
). She lives in Madrid.