Of Love and Shadows

by Isabel Allende

  It was Morante’s custom to refer to women as ladies, clearly establishing the difference between these ethereal creatures and the rough masculine world. In his social behavior, his manners were rather ceremonious, verging on ostentation, in contrast to his rough-and-ready manner with his comrades-in-arms. He looked every inch the swimming champion that he was. The only time the typewriters in the fifth-floor editorial offices ever fell silent was the day he appeared looking for Irene. Tan, muscular, proud, he embodied the very essence of a warrior. The women reporters, the layout editors, the usually impassive models, Mario’s assistants—all looked up from their work and froze as he entered. He strode forward, unsmiling, and with him marched the great soldiers of all times: Alexander, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, along with the celluloid hosts from war films. The air thickened into a deep, concentrated, and melting sigh. That was the first time Francisco had seen him and, in spite of himself, he was impressed by the Captain’s compelling presence. Francisco was suddenly filled with a malaise that he attributed to his antipathy for the military, not realizing that what he was experiencing was vulgar jealousy. Normally he would have disguised his feelings, as he was uncomfortable in the presence of petty emotions. He could not, however, resist the temptation to sow the seeds of uneasiness in Irene’s mind, and through the succeeding months he often expressed his opinion about the catastrophic state of the nation since the armed forces had come out of their barracks to usurp power. Irene justified the coup, using arguments she had heard from her fiancé. Francisco rebutted them, alleging that the dictatorship had not resolved a single problem; instead, it had aggravated existing problems and created new ones, and government repression was the only reason the truth was not known. A hermetic seal capped reality, and an atrocious brew was fermenting beneath it, building up so much pressure that when the lid blew there would not be enough weapons or soldiers to contain it. Irene listened absentmindedly. Her difficulties with Gustavo were of a different order. She was sure she could never be a model wife for a high-ranking officer, not even if she turned herself inside out like a sock. She suspected that if they had not known each other since childhood, she would never have fallen in love with Gustavo; possibly they would never have met, because the military lived in closed circles, and preferred to marry the daughters of their superior officers or the sisters of their comrades, girls educated to be innocent sweethearts and faithful wives—although things did not always work out that way. It was not for nothing that the men were sworn to warn a comrade if his wife was deceiving him, forcing him to take measures before he was reported to the High Command and his career was ruined by an adulterous wife. Irene thought this was a monstrous custom. At first, Gustavo had argued that it was impossible to measure men and women by the same rule, not only with regard to Army morality, but that of any decent family, because undeniable biological differences do exist, as well as a historical and religious tradition that no women’s liberation movement would ever erase. A single standard, he said, could result in great harm to society. But Gustavo prided himself on not being a chauvinist like the majority of his friends. His relationship with Irene, and a year of seclusion at the South Pole refining his ideas and softening some of the harsh edges of his character, had convinced him of the injustice of the double standard. He offered Irene the honest alternative: he would be faithful, for he considered that sexual freedom for both of them was a preposterous idea invented by Scandinavians. As severe with himself as he was with others, adamant once he had given his word, madly in love, and normally exhausted by physical exercise, he fulfilled his part of the bargain under ordinary circumstances. During prolonged separations, calling on his self-control, he struggled against his appetites, captive to a promise. He suffered morally when he yielded to temptation. He was unable to live for long periods in celibacy, but his heart remained untouched, a tribute to his eternal sweetheart.

  To Gustavo Morante, the Army was an absorbing vocation. He had chosen it as a career because he was fascinated by the rigorousness of the life and the security of a stable future, and because he had a taste for command as well as a family tradition. His father and grandfather had been generals before him. At twenty-one he had distinguished himself as the best student in his class, and was a fencing and swimming champion. He chose to enter the artillery, and there fulfilled his desire to command troops and train recruits. When Francisco Leal met Morante, he had just returned from the Antarctic, twelve months of isolation beneath immutable skies—the horizon a leaden dome lighted by a pale sun during six nightless months, followed by a half year of perennial darkness. Once a week, for only fifteen minutes, he was able to communicate with Irene by radio; sick with jealousy and loneliness, he used the time to inquire into every detail of what she was doing. The High Command had selected him from among many candidates for his strength of character and physical conditioning, and he lived in that vast desolate territory with seven other men. He survived storms that raised black waves as high as mountains while defending their most precious treasures: the Eskimo dogs and stores of fuel. At thirty degrees below zero, he moved mechanically to combat the sidereal cold and incurable longing, with his only—his sacred—mission to keep the nation’s flag waving above that godforsaken outpost. He tried not to think about Irene, but neither exhaustion, nor ice, nor the corpsman’s pills to outwit lust succeeded in erasing her warm memory from his heart. He occupied himself during the summer months by hunting seals to be stored in the snow for winter, and he cheated the hours while verifying meteorological observations: measuring tides and wind velocity, octaves of clouds, temperatures, and humidity; forecasting storms; sending up balloons to divine nature’s intentions through trigonometric calculations. He had moments of euphoria and moments of depression, but never fell into the vices of panic and disillusion. Isolation and exposure to that proud icy land tempered his character and his mind, making him more reflective. He devoted himself to books on history, adding a new dimension to his thought. When he was overcome with love, he wrote letters to Irene in a style as diaphanous as the white landscape around him, but he never mailed them since the only means of transport was the ship that would come to pick them up at the end of the year. When finally he returned, he was slimmer, his hands were calloused and his skin burned almost black from the reverberating snow, and he was mad with worry. He brought with him two hundred and ninety sealed envelopes numbered in strict chronological order that he placed in the lap of his fiancée, whom he found inattentive and volatile, more interested in her work than in alleviating her lover’s amorous impatience, and not at all inclined to read that pouch of out-of-date correspondence. At any rate, they went away for a few days to a discreet resort where they lived in unbridled passion, and the Captain made up for the time he had lost during so many months of enforced celibacy. The whole purpose of his absence had been to save enough money to marry Irene, because in those inhospitable regions he had earned six times the normal salary for his rank. He was driven by the desire to offer Irene her own house, modern furniture, household appliances, a car, and a comfortable income. It made no difference that she evinced no interest in such things and had suggested that, instead of wedding, they have a trial marriage to see whether the sum of their affinities was greater than that of their differences. Morante had no intention of undertaking an experiment that would prejudice his career. A solid family life was an important qualification for promotion to the rank of major. Furthermore, in the armed forces, after a certain age, a bachelor was looked on with suspicion. In the meanwhile, Beatriz Alcántara, ignoring her daughter’s vacillation, was feverishly preparing for the wedding. She searched the shops for hand-painted English china with bird motifs, embroidered Dutch table linens, French silk lingerie, and other luxury items for her only daughter’s trousseau and hope chest. Who will iron these things once I’m married, Mama? Irene wailed when she saw the Belgian laces, Japanese silks, Irish linens, Scottish wools, and other ineffable fabrics imported from the four corners of the globe.


  At every stage of his career, Gustavo had been stationed in provincial garrisons, but he traveled to the capital to see Irene whenever he could. During those periods, she never communicated with Francisco, even if there was urgent work at the magazine. She disappeared with her fiancé, dancing in dark discothèques, holding hands in theaters and on long walks, dissipating their passions in circumspect hotels where they could satisfy their longing. Irene’s absences put Francisco in a black mood. He would lock himself in his room, listening to his favorite symphonies and wallowing in his melancholy. One day, unable to bite his tongue, he committed the folly of asking Irene the extent of her intimacy with the Bridegroom of Death. She laughed until she cried. You surely don’t think I’m a virgin at my age! she replied, depriving him even of doubt. Shortly afterward, Gustavo Morante was assigned for several months to a school for officers in Panama. His contact with Irene was limited to passionate letters, long-distance telephone calls, and gifts sent on military aircraft. Thus the all-enveloping ghost of that tenacious lover was responsible for Francisco’s spending the night with Irene like a brother. Whenever he remembered it, he clapped his hand to his forehead, amazed at his behavior.

  One evening, he and Irene had stayed late at the office to work on an article. They had gathered their information, and needed to organize it for the following day. The hours flew by and they did not notice as the employees left and lights were turned off in the other offices. They went out and bought a bottle of wine and something to eat. Since they enjoyed listening to music as they worked, they put a concerto on the record player and, with the flutes and violins, time went by without regard for the clock. It was very late when they finished, and only then did they become aware of the silence and darkness of the night through the open windows. They saw no sign of life; below them spread a deserted city; it was like science fiction, as if some cataclysm had erased every trace of humanity. Even the air seemed opaque, dead. Curfew, they murmured in unison, realizing they were trapped, for no one was allowed to move through the streets at that hour. Francisco blessed the good fortune that would allow him more time with Irene. She thought how worried her mother and Rosa would be, and ran to the telephone to explain. They drank the rest of the wine, listened twice more to the concerto, and talked of a thousand things; then, since they were both exhausted, Irene suggested they try to get some rest on the sofa.

  The fifth-floor lavatory was a large room with multiple functions; it served as a dressing room for the models; as a make-up room, because of an especially well-lighted mirror; and even as a coffee shop, thanks to a hot plate for heating water. It was the only private and intimate spot on the floor. In one corner sat an old divan, a relic of days gone by. It was a huge piece of furniture upholstered in magenta brocade; rusty springs poked through the multiple wounds, in stark contrast to its turn-of-the-century dignity. It was a place to pamper headaches, to cry over love affairs and other, lesser sorrows, or merely to take a break when the pressures of work grew too strong. There a secretary had nearly bled to death after a botched abortion; there Mario’s assistants had declared their passion; and there Mario himself had surprised the two of them, trouserless on the stained purplish tapestry. It was on that divan that Irene and Francisco pulled up their coats and lay down to sleep. Irene fell asleep immediately, but Francisco lay awake until morning, tormented by conflicting emotions. He did not wish to become involved in an earthshaking relationship with a woman from the other side of the fence. He felt irresistibly drawn to Irene, however; in her presence all his emotions were heightened and he was unavoidably happy. Irene both amused and fascinated him. Beneath her apparent capriciousness—unwitting, sometimes candid—he found her basically without blemish, like the heart of a fruit waiting to ripen. He also thought about Gustavo Morante and his role in Irene’s destiny. Francisco feared that Irene would reject him, and that he would lose even her friendship. Words once spoken cannot be erased. Later, recalling his emotions during that unforgettable night, he reached the conclusion that he had not dared hint of his love because it was obvious that Irene did not share his anxiety. She slept tranquilly in his arms, without a suspicion of how deeply she affected him. To her, theirs was a platonic friendship, without sexual attraction, and he chose not to violate it, hoping that love would softly grow in her, as it had in him. He felt her beside him on the sofa, breathing peacefully in her sleep, her long hair like a dark arabesque covering her face and shoulders. He lay absolutely still, controlling even his breathing to conceal his throbbing and terrible agitation. On the one hand, he wanted to throw himself upon her and ravish her, regretting having accepted that tacit pact of comradeship that had bound him for months. On the other hand, he recognized the need to control an emotion that could divert him from the goals that governed the present stage of his life. Cramped from tension and anguish, but willing to prolong the moment forever, he lay by her side until he heard the first street sounds and saw the light of dawn at the window. Irene wakened with a start, and for a moment could not remember where she was; then she leaped up, splashed cold water on her face, and hurried home, leaving Francisco feeling like an orphan. Ever since that day, Irene had told anyone who wanted to listen that they had slept together, which, Francisco mused, even in the literal sense of the expression was regrettably untrue.

  * * *

  Sunday awoke. The light was oppressive, the air sultry and heavy, like a preview of summer. There is little progress in violence, and the same methods have been used to butcher hogs since the times of the barbarians. Irene thought of this as a picturesque ritual, because she had never seen so much as a hen killed, and barely recognized a pig in its natural state. She went with the purpose of getting an article for her magazine, so enthusiastic about the project that she never mentioned the subject of Evangelina and her boisterous attacks; it was as if she had forgotten them. Francisco felt that they were traveling through unfamiliar territory. Spring had erupted since the previous week; green had taken command of the fields; acacias were in flower—those enchanted trees whose branches from a distance seem to be covered with bees, yellow blossoms that make your head spin with their impossible fragrance as you draw near; hawthorns and mulberries were alive with birds, and the very air vibrated with the humming of insects. When they reached the Ranquileos’ house, the job at hand was under way. The Ranquileos themselves, and their visitors, were busy around a bonfire, and children were running around shouting, laughing, and coughing from the smoke; the dogs were happily and impatiently circling the caldrons, sensing the spoils of the feast. The Ranquileos greeted the new arrivals with every sign of courtesy, but Irene noticed a touch of sadness in their faces. Beneath the cordial exterior she perceived distress, but there was no opportunity to inquire about it, or to comment to Francisco, because at that precise moment the hog was being dragged in. It was an enormous animal that had been fattened especially for the family’s consumption; all the others were raised to be sold. An expert had selected this pig when it was only a few days old, putting his hand down its throat to verify that it was free of tapeworms, thus guaranteeing the quality of the meat. This pig was fed on grains and vegetables, unlike the other pigs that were given scraps. Isolated, captive, and immobilized, the animal had awaited its fate, adding fat to fat, its hams growing juicy and tender. Today was the first time the beast had traveled the two hundred meters separating its pen from the sacrificial altar, stumbling along on its hopelessly short legs, blinded in the light, deaf with terror. Irene could not imagine how they would be able to kill this mountain of flesh that weighed as much as three husky men.

  Beside the bonfire a makeshift table had been fashioned from thick planks set across two barrels. Hipólito Ranquileo was awaiting the hog with an upraised ax; when the animal was before him, he struck a hard blow to its head with the blunt end of the tool, and the hog fell to the ground stunned—not sufficiently stunned, unfortunately, to prevent its screams from echoing through the hills; the dogs’ muzzles twitched, and they pan
ted with impatience. Several men bound the hog’s feet and with great difficulty lifted it onto the table. This was the moment for the expert. He was a man born with a gift for the kill, a rare skill almost never given to women. He could reach the heart with a single thrust, even with his eyes closed, for he was guided not by anatomical knowledge but an executioner’s intuition. He had traveled a long distance, especially invited to sacrifice the animal, because if it was not done skillfully, the pig’s dying screams would shatter the nerves of everyone in the neighborhood. The expert took an enormous bone-handled knife with a sharp steel blade, lifted it high with both hands like an Aztec priest, and brought it down in the hog’s neck, unhesitatingly plunging it into the center of life. The hog bawled despairingly as a gout of warm blood gushed from the wound, spattering everyone nearby and forming a pool that was immediately lapped up by the dogs. Digna brought a pail to catch the blood, and within seconds it was filled. A sweetish odor of blood and fear floated on the air.

  At that moment Francisco realized that Irene was no longer by his side and, turning to look for her, he found her lying motionless on the ground. The others saw her, too, and a roar of laughter celebrated her fainting spell. Francisco bent over her and shook her until she opened her eyes. I want to leave, she begged as soon as she recovered her voice, but Francisco insisted on staying until the end. That’s why they had come. He intimated that she should either learn to control her nerves or get a different job. Losing her composure could become a habit, he said, and he reminded her of the haunted house where the mere creaking of a door was enough to cause her to turn pale and collapse in his arms. He kept teasing Irene until the moans from the pig ceased, and when she was sure that it was truly dead, she was able to get to her feet.