The House of Impossible Loves

by Cristina Lopez Barrio

  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.

  2

  THE 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.

  The horse stopped before the high iron gate that led into the property. Clara contemplated the drive leading to the front door—big cobblestones, with ribbons of earth snaking between.

  “It’s a magnificent estate, but there’s something that makes me uneasy. There’s a sad air about it,” the Andalusian said.

  “Perhaps because it’s abandoned.”

  “Would you like to live here one day?”

  “I think so.”

  Clara pressed her cheek into the back of his cape. “I want to show you something. Come. I know a way into the garden.”

  They followed the stone wall and climbed into the rose garden where part of it had crumbled. Several paths wound in a circle, where dry stalks clung to tall posts, creating a skeletal pergola. Rain clouds were scattered across the sky, reaching down, creating an opaline fog that filtered through the dried stems. Wind rustled the remaining petals rotting on top of dry leaves amid patches of snow. Clara showed the Andalusian a yellow rose that was still in bud.

  “If it can survive the first snows, then I can survive until you return.”

  He took Clara in his arms.

  “I’ll return next fall—before then, at the end of summer, if my lands allow. Wait for me, Clara. Don’t love another. Don’t even look at another.”

  “Do you promise you’ll return?”

  “I do, Clara. I promise I’ll return.”

  When the landowner arrived at the inn, he settled into the armchair in front of the fire to warm bones chilled through by the Castilian cold. He drank a cup of red wine and closed his eyes. He missed the warmth of his estate, rows of orange trees, the sun, black bulls in the fields and horses harnessed with bells, the songs young Gypsies sang picked up by the breeze and carried across his lands. He was anxious to cross the plateau, now covered in snow, hauling the cart with his Andalusian hounds past castles perched high on hilltops.

  Suddenly, there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find Clara’s mother with her one blind eye, one black pupil, and ashen, windblown hair. The woman held her sack with the cat bones in one hand and, in the other, a magnificent vulture’s claw on a string.

  “I brought this amulet,” she said, holding it out, “to protect you on your trip home.”

  “I have no doubt it’ll do just that. The one I bought for the hunt was very effective—I’ve got a big rack to take home.”

  “Among other things.” The old witch clucked. “Among other things.”

  “Let me pay you.”

  “I’d expect nothing less. A few coins are always welcome to a woman like me, who has to look after her only daughter.”

  “Take good care of her while I’m gone.” The Andalusian handed her the money as she hung the claw around his neck.

  “So you plan to come back.”

  “As soon as my lands allow, I’ll come see Clara and hunt again.” The Andalusian tried to smile, but this woman unsettled him deep in his gut.

  “Think it over. My daughter is already a lost cause; nothing can save her. But you still have time. I suppose you’ve heard about our curse?” the Laguna witch asked. Her blind eye seemed to glow.

  “They told me at the tavern, yes: that the Laguna women are cursed, that you only ever have daughters, that you’re doomed to a life of disgrace.” He cleared his throat, wishing he could take back that last word.

  “They forgot to tell you the real bane of our existence. It’s true we only ever have girls who never marry, and they call this a life of disgrace, but we’re doomed to something far worse, my friend: we’re doomed to be unlucky in love. We’re fated to suffer for love, for the one love that steals our soul. It’s why no spell can end our suffering or make us forget. Once the soul is gone, no magic can cure it.”

  “I promised Clara I would return, and I will keep my promise.” The landowner felt the heat from the fire on his cheeks.

  “My daughter is a fine example of her father’s stock.” The old woman looked up at the ceiling, her blind eye staring blankly. “She’s attractive, proud, and brave. She knows how to take care of herself, but this thing with you was bound to happen sooner or later. The amulet I made her is useless. It was only to protect her from other men until the one who was destined to come came along. But she knew to stay away from the others. Clara fears the curse; it might be the only thing she fears. Now pour me some wine.” The old witch pointed to the bottle on the table. “All this talk of curses makes me thirsty.”

  He poured a glass, and the witch swallowed the wine in a single gulp.

  “Now, would you like me to predict your future with the cat bones? When you throw the bones, the position of the tail will tell whether you’ll have male heirs.”

  “I have to get up early to catch the morning coach. Perhaps when I return.”

  “I understand.” The tip of the old woman’s tongue, blackened from tasting her potions, protruded between her lips, and the Andalusian could not help but stare. “Why don’t you give me a few coins for something more useful, then.” She pulled a greenish bottle out of a leather bag that was slung across her shoulder and sat at her hip. She handed it to him. “Drink this when the moon wanes, then wash the area over your heart with thyme and rosemary water. It’ll help you forget, and you won’t ever have to return.”

  “But I don’t want to forget.”

  “Keep it. Pay me and I’ll be on my way.”

  The Laguna witch picked up her rigid sack, took the Andalusian’s coins, and left. The landowner stood with the little jar in his hands as a soft pulse beat behind the glass. He let go, and it shattered on the floor. A yellowish liquid stinking of rotten figs seeped out as a lizard tail thrashed on the floor.

  The young landowner was hardly able to sleep that night; whenever he did, his mouth grew dry and he dreamed of the potion’s smell and reptiles. The next morning, he took the first coach home to Andalusia, his eyes shot through with insomnia, his hounds in the cart behind, their barks throbbing in his temples.

  Clara Laguna settled in to wait for the Andalusian landowner. She continued to fetch water from the town square at dawn, but now everyone she passed—man or woman, young or old—studied her belly to see if it had grown, to see if it hid another Laguna girl. The months passed as Clara tended her tomatoes, cleaned the pen, fed the chickens and the goat, helped her mother repair hymens and stir potions, as she went to the oak grove and to the estate to contemplate the yellow rose that ignored the tedium of the seasons. But the belly everyone expected to swell remained flat and silent.

  Every two or three months Clara received a piece of mail from the Andalusian: pages drenched in olive oil and dried in the sun, orange blossoms and jasmine flowers wrapped in tissue paper rather than words because Clara was illiterate. She replied with dried leaves, bark from an oak tree, yellow rose petals, pine needles, and locks of her hair stuffed into blue envelopes it took all her courage to buy at the general store and fill out, copying her lover’s address in a tremulous hand.

  By the middle of spring, when daisies and poppies bloomed in the fields, Clara Laguna had grown sick with impatience. She begged her mother to predict when the landowner would return. Dumping the cat bones onto the cot, Clara gathered them up and threw them as she thought only of him.

  “He’ll be back in rutting season. I see it clearly here, in the shinbones.”

  The Laguna witch was right. Just as the September foliage began to turn, the Andalusian arrived
on the afternoon coach, accompanied by his two servants but without any trace of his hounds. He could hear stags bellowing in the surrounding woodlands as he settled into the same rooms at the inn. The animals’ howling grew more desperate as he dug his spurs into the flanks of a horse and headed to see Clara, where the echo of their first kisses sent rumbles all the way down to the outskirts of town. They set off for the oak grove, where they made love under a full moon.

  The Andalusian’s skin was darkened by the joy of long summer nights. He also smelled of the sea, a scent unfamiliar to Clara. But he was not the only one in town to carry with him a hint of the ocean. A new priest, the man who would guide the souls of the faithful from the pulpit, arrived on the next morning’s coach.

  The local priest had died a few months earlier, cursing old age and his liver, and parishioners had been forced to attend Mass in the neighboring town. The moment the new priest heard this, he knew this inhospitable land and its inhabitants had been exposed to the whims of evil. A fervent believer in the devil since his seminary days, he knew it was just a matter of opportunity before Lucifer appeared in the world. His obsession only grew when he volunteered to serve as chaplain with Spanish troops battling the rebels fighting for Cuban independence. For two years he hastily performed last rites over young men felled by bayonets, gunpowder, and fevers, crouched amid mosquitoes, sugar cane, and tobacco plants. Though he had sworn not to return to Spain until victory was won, they brought him home against his will after his battalion was ambushed and he wandered deep in the jungle for over a month, with hunger his only companion. They found him feverish in the hut of a Santeria priestess, who had read in his palm that his life would forever be linked to the devil’s, that wherever he went, the devil was sure to follow. The priest was a young man—not yet thirty—but his face was aged by the Caribbean sun and the sight of death.

  Resigned to his fate, the young priest acquiesced to his superiors’ mandate that he go to this Castilian backwater, where news from the colonies rarely arrived. They hoped a pastoral life of sermons, card games, and anisette in this forgotten town surrounded by mountains and harsh terrain would rid him of this obsession with the devil—and if not, then the frigid air might freeze it out of him.