Of Love and Shadows

by Isabel Allende

  And last, Irene pointed out a woman sipping a cool drink on the terrace: Look carefully, that’s Josefina Bianchi, the actress, have you heard of her? Francisco saw a small woman who had doubtless been a real beauty and, in a certain way, still was. She was wearing a dressing gown and satin slippers because she lived her life on Paris time—a difference of several hours and two seasons. Around her shoulders was draped a moth-eaten fox fur piece, with pathetic staring glass eyes and woebegone tails.

  “Cleo pounced on her stole one day, and by the time we got it away from her, the foxes looked as if they had been run over by a train,” said Irene, restraining the dog.

  The actress had trunkfuls of old clothes she had worn in her favorite performances, garments unused for half a century that she frequently brushed off to parade before the bedazzled eyes of her friends in the retirement home. She had lost none of her faculties, including a talent for flirting, and her interest in the world remained undiminished; she read all the newspapers, and from time to time went to the movies. She was Irene’s favorite, and the nurses treated her with deference, calling her “ma’am” instead of “dearie.” To console her in her last years, she had her inexhaustible imagination. Entertained by her own fantasies, she lacked time or will to worry about the pettiness of life. There was no chaos in her memories; they were stored in perfect order, and she was happy when hunting through them. In that, she was luckier than other old people from whose minds entire episodes from the past had been erased, making them fear that they had not lived them. Josefina Bianchi had her full life to sustain her, and her greatest happiness lay in recalling it with the precision of a statistician. Her only regret was for opportunities she had missed: the hand she had not held out; the tears unshed; the mouths left unkissed. She had had several husbands and many lovers; she had lived her adventures without assessing the consequences; she wasted time with great satisfaction, since, she often said, she would live to be a hundred. She had arranged for her future with a good sense of the practical, choosing the retirement home herself when she realized she could no longer live alone; and she charged a lawyer with the task of administering her savings to assure her well-being to the end of her days. She felt a deep affection for Irene Beltrán; in her youth Josefina Bianchi had been blessed with the same fiery hair, and it amused her to pretend that the girl was her great-granddaughter, or was she herself at the height of her splendor. She opened her treasure-filled trunks, showed Irene her scrapbooks, let her read letters from lovers who had lost their peace of mind and all control of their senses over her. She and Irene had made a secret pact: The day I dirty my drawers, Josefina Bianchi had pleaded, or can’t put on my lipstick, you help me die, daughter. And of course, Irene had promised.

  “Mother’s gone away on a trip, so we’ll have dinner alone,” Irene said as she led Francisco up the inside stairway to the second floor.

  The lights from The Will of God Manor—and the music—did not reach the second floor; everything was dark and silent. By the time the visitors had left and the residents had returned to their rooms, the calm of night was settling over the house, casting its peculiar shadows. Rosa, fat and magnificent, met them in the hall with her wide smile. She had a soft spot for the dark young man who always greeted her so warmly, joked with her, and was not above rolling on the floor and wrestling with the dog. She felt much closer and more familiar with him than with Gustavo Morante, although she had no doubt that he was not as good a match for her little girl. In the months she had known Francisco, she had never seen him in anything but the gray corduroy pants and the same rubber-soled shoes. What a pity. Well dressed, always blessed, she thought, but immediately corrected herself with the contrary proverb: Clothes don’t make the man.

  “Turn on the lights, Irene,” she recommended before plunging into the kitchen.

  The living room was decorated with Oriental rugs, modern paintings, and a few art books scattered in strategic disorder. The furniture looked comfortable, and a profusion of plants lent their freshness to the room. While Irene uncorked a bottle of rosé wine, Francisco settled onto the sofa, thinking about his parents’ house where a record player was the only luxury.

  “What are we celebrating?” he asked.

  “That we’re lucky to be alive,” Irene replied, without smiling.

  He watched her without speaking, confirming his sense that something about her was different. He watched her pour the wine into the goblets with an unsteady hand, a sad look on her face, tonight innocent of any makeup. To gain a little time and examine his own thoughts, Francisco looked through the records and selected an old tango. He put it on the record player and they heard the unmistakable voice of Gardel coming to them across fifty years of history. They listened in silence, holding hands, until Rosa came to announce that dinner was served in the dining room.

  “Wait here, don’t move,” Irene said, turning off the lights as she left.

  She returned in a few minutes carrying a five-branched candelabrum, an apparition from another century in her long white dress, the glimmer of candlelight streaking her hair with metallic highlights. Solemnly she led Francisco along the corridor to the dining room that had been converted from a former bedroom. The furniture was too large for the dimensions of the room, but Beatriz Alcántara, with unfailing good taste, had overcome that obstacle by having the walls painted a Pompeian red, which contrasted dramatically with the glass of the table and the white upholstery of the chairs. The only painting was a still life of the Flemish school: onions, garlic, a shotgun resting in a corner, and three deplorable pheasants hanging by their feet.

  “Don’t look at it too long or you’ll have nightmares,” Irene warned.

  Francisco silently toasted the absence of Beatriz and the Bridegroom of Death, content to find himself alone with Irene.

  “And now, my friend, tell me why you’re so sad.”

  “Because until now I’ve been living a dream, and I’m afraid to wake up.”

  * * *

  Irene Beltrán had been a spoiled child, the only daughter of wealthy parents, protected from any contact with the world and even the restiveness of her own heart. Adulation, pampering, coddling, an English school for young ladies, a Catholic university, careful monitoring of newspapers and television: there’s so much evil and violence today, it’s better to protect her from those things; she’ll suffer enough when she grows up, it’s inevitable, but let’s give her a happy childhood . . . go to sleep, sweetheart, Mama is watching over you. Pedigreed dogs, gardens, horseback riding at the Club, skiing in winter and the beach all summer long, dancing classes to teach her to move gracefully: she doesn’t walk, she bounces, and flops into chairs like a contortionist; leave her alone, Beatriz, don’t be at her all the time. We have to, we have to give her guidance: X-ray her spine, keep her face scrubbed, a psychologist because Tuesday she dreamed of quicksand and woke up screaming. It’s your fault, Eusebio, you’ve spoiled her with gifts more suitable for one of your mistresses: French perfumes, lace blouses, jewelry inappropriate for a child of her age. You’re the guilty one, Beatriz; because you’re so frivolous and lacking in understanding, Irene dresses the way she does to defy you, the analyst himself said so. Well, I say in spite of everything we did for her, look how she turned out: an unconventional girl who mocks everything and gives up painting and music to be a journalist. I never have liked that profession, they’re all scoundrels, there’s no future in it, and it’s dangerous besides! All right, Beatriz, but at least we’ve made her happy; she laughs easily, and she has a generous heart; with a little luck she’ll be happy until she gets married, and then when she has to face the task of living, she’ll at least be able to say that her parents gave her a happy childhood. But you went away, Eusebio, damn you, you abandoned us before she finished growing up, and now I’m lost; trouble is seeping in through every crack and crevice, through the leaks in the roof, I’m drowning in it, I can’t hold it back any longer; every day i
t’s more difficult to keep Irene from all evil—amen. You see her eyes? They were always a wanderer’s eyes, that’s why Rosa thinks she won’t have a long life, she always seems to be saying goodbye. Look at them, Eusebio, her eyes are different now, they’re filled with shadows, as if she were looking into a deep well. Where are you, Eusebio?

  Irene had gauged the enormity of her parents’ hatred before they themselves suspected it. During the nights of her childhood, she had lain awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to their endless recriminations with an indescribable anxiety in her bones. Her mother’s tearful telephone calls, the long, confidential exchanges with her friends, kept Irene awake. She could not hear the words, distorted by closed doors and her own anguish, but her imagination gave them meaning. She knew her mother was talking about her father. Irene never fell asleep until she heard his car drive into the garage and his key in the lock; then her worry evaporated, she breathed a sigh of contentment, closed her eyes, and sank into sleep. By the time he reached her room to kiss her good night, Eusebio Beltrán always found his daughter fast asleep, and he left calmly, thinking she was happy. As soon as the child was able to decipher the many little signs, she knew that one day he would leave—as, finally, he did. Her father was a transient in life, always passing through, shifting from foot to foot, incapable of standing still, his eyes lost in the distance, abruptly changing subjects in the middle of a conversation, asking questions but not listening to the answers. Only when he was with Irene did he seem to acquire any permanence. She was the sole human being he ever truly loved, and she alone held him for more than a few years. He was at her side during the memorable moments of her progress toward womanhood: he bought her her first brassière, her nylons, her high-heeled shoes; he told her where babies come from—an amazing story. Irene could not imagine two persons who hated each other as much as her parents doing that to bring her into the world.

  With time she came to realize that the man she adored could be despotic and cruel. He tormented his wife unmercifully, calling attention to each new wrinkle, to the unwanted pounds at her waist. Have you noticed how the chauffeur looks at you, Beatriz? You’re cut out for a proletarian taste, darling. Caught between the two, Irene played the referee in their endless squabbles. Why don’t you make up, and we’ll celebrate with a cake? she implored. Her heart inclined toward her father because her relationship with her mother was colored with rivalry. Beatriz watched as Irene’s figure filled out, and felt that with every curve she herself aged a year. Please, God, I don’t want her to grow up.

  Irene awakened early to the challenge of life. At twelve, she seemed younger, but she was already agitated by an inner turbulence, by a desire for adventure. These stormy emotions fevered her days, and often disturbed her sleep. An avid and indiscriminate reader, in spite of her mother’s censoring eye, Irene read any book that came to her hands; the books she did not want Beatriz to see, she read beneath the blankets at night by the light of a flashlight. As a result, she knew more about life than was normal for a child of her environment; what experience had denied, she supplemented with romantic fantasies.

  Eusebio Beltrán and his wife were on a trip the day the baby fell through the skylight. That was years ago now, but neither Rosa nor Irene would ever forget it. The chauffeur had picked up Irene at school, and had left her at the garden gate to go do some other chores. It had rained all day; at that hour the winter sky was the color of molten lead and the streetlamps were beginning to come on. Irene was surprised to find her house so dark and silent. She opened the door with her key, but to her amazement Rosa wasn’t waiting for her as usual; nor did she hear the six-o’clock serial blaring from the radio. Irene left her books on the entry-hall table and walked down the corridor without turning on the lights. A vague and shadowy presentiment drew her forward. She tiptoed along the hall, hugging the walls, summoning Rosa with all the strength of her thoughts. The living room was empty, and so were the dining room and kitchen. Not daring to go any farther, Irene stood listening to the sound of the drumming in her chest, tempted simply to stand there without moving, without even breathing, until the chauffeur returned. She tried to rationalize, telling herself there was nothing to be afraid of; maybe her Nana had gone out, or maybe she was down in the cellar. Since Irene had never been alone in the house before, her uneasiness prevented her from thinking clearly. As the minutes ticked by, she sank lower and lower against the wall, until finally she was huddled in a little ball. When she noticed that her feet were cold and realized that the heat had not been turned on, she feared something really serious had happened, because Rosa never left her duties undone. Irene somehow found the courage to stand up and go look for her. She moved slowly down the hall, until she heard a moan. Every nerve in her body tensed; then curiosity overcame her fear and guided her steps toward the forbidden territory of the servants’ quarters. The hot-water heaters, the laundry and ironing rooms, the wine cellar, and the pantry were here. From Rosa’s room, at the far end of the corridor, came the sound of muffled sobbing. Irene walked toward the room, her eyes round, fear pounding at her temples. She saw no light beneath the door, and scenes of horror flashed through her fantasy. Stories from forbidden books rushed to her mind: brigands had invaded the house, and Rosa was lying stretched out on the bed with her throat slit from ear to ear; she was being devoured by carnivorous rats that had swarmed up from the cellar; bound hand and foot, she was being violated by a madman, which had happened in a story the chauffeur had lent her. She could never have imagined what she did find when she went into Rosa’s room.

  Cautiously, Irene lifted the latch and pushed open the door. She slipped her hand around the doorjamb and felt along the wall until she touched the light switch; she turned on the light. What met her eyes, dazzled by the sudden brilliance, was Rosa, her enormous and beloved Rosa, collapsed on a chair with her dress pulled up around her waist and her heavy, dark legs sheathed in wool stockings up to her bloodstained knees. Her head was thrown back and her face distorted with pain. On the floor between her feet lay a reddish mass encircled by a long, blue, twisted fleshlike cord.

  When she saw Irene, Rosa tried to pull down her dress to cover herself, and struggled in vain to get to her feet.

  “Rosa! What’s the matter with you?”

  “Go away, child. Don’t come in here.”

  “What’s that?” Irene asked, pointing to the floor.

  She ran to her Nana; she put her arms around her and with the tail of her school pinafore she wiped the sweat from Rosa’s forehead, and covered her cheeks with kisses.

  “Where did that baby come from?” she asked finally.

  “From up there—it fell in through the skylight,” Rosa replied, pointing to an air vent in the ceiling. “It fell on its head and died. That’s why it’s covered with blood.”

  Irene leaned over to observe it; indeed, the infant was not breathing.

  It did not seem to be the moment to explain that she knew a little about such things, and that she could see very clearly that this was a six- or seven-month fetus, approximately three and a half pounds in weight, male, and blue from oxygen deprivation—probably stillborn. The only thing that surprised her was that she had not noticed the pregnancy earlier, but she attributed that to her Nana’s abundant flesh. Rosa could easily disguise a swelling belly among her many rolls of flesh.

  “What shall we do, Rosa?”

  “Ay, child! We mustn’t tell anyone. Do you swear you’ll never tell?”

  “I swear it.”

  “We’d better throw it in the trash.”

  “That’s a terrible way to end up, Rosa. It isn’t the poor little thing’s fault it fell through the skylight. Why don’t we give it a burial?”

  And give it a burial they did. As soon as Rosa could get up, wash herself, and change her clothes, they wrapped the infant in a plastic shopping bag and sealed it with adhesive tape. They hid the plastic coffin until late that night; then,
after making sure the chauffeur was asleep, they carried the body to the garden to be buried. They dug a deep hole, placed the package with its sad contents at the bottom, carefully shoveled back the dirt, tamped it down, and said a prayer. Two days later, Irene bought some forget-me-nots and planted them on the place where the baby-that-fell-through-the-skylight lay sleeping. From that time on, Rosa and Irene were united by an affectionate complicity, a secret that neither of them mentioned for many years, until it became so natural to them that the subject began to appear casually in their conversations. No one in the house paid any attention to what they were talking about, and every new gardener was charged by young Irene to tend the forget-me-nots with care. When the tiny flowers bloomed in the spring, she cut some and left them in her Nana’s room.

  Playing with her cousin Gustavo, Irene discovered shortly afterward that kisses taste like fruit, and that the clumsiest and most inexpert caresses can inflame the senses. They used to hide to exchange kisses, awakening sleeping desires. It was several summers before they experienced the ultimate intimacy, both because they feared the consequences and because they were held in check by the obstinacy of Gustavo, who had been taught that there are two kinds of women: the decent ones that you marry, and the other kind that you take to bed. His cousin belonged to the first group. They knew nothing of how to avoid pregnancy, and it was only later—when Gustavo was initiated into the ways of men by the rough barracks life, and when his morality had become a little more flexible—that they could make love unafraid. During the years that followed, they matured together. Marriage would be a mere formality for these cousins who had already pledged each other their futures.