“My daughter will be respectable and must have an education!”
“I told you to go and never come back. As long as I’m in charge, there’s no point wasting your breath or the soles of your shoes.”
At that, Manuela would march down to the town hall to file a complaint.
“My daughter has a right to go to school,” she would tell an official. “Times have changed. This I know, even if I can’t read it in the paper.”
“Place an X here,” the middle-aged man would say, smiling. “I’ll fill out the form, and you’ll hear from us soon.”
But no reply ever came to Scarlet Manor or anywhere else, as if the Lagunas did not exist—or no one wanted to admit they did.
The summer after Olvido turned eleven, several men seized the Republican flag flapping outside town hall and burned it in the square; meanwhile, red wine stuck like a blood clot in the craw of others at the tavern. Silence and sidelong glances clogged the air along with smoke from unfiltered cigarettes. The Spanish Civil War had begun.
In September the usual hunters did not come with their packs of hounds and handsome rifles. The town reeked of gunpowder from the killing of friends and relatives rather than stags and wild boar. Many, including the schoolmaster, enlisted to fight on the front. A kind-looking young miss was sent from the provincial capital to replace him. The minute Manuela heard, she went to town and waited by the door until school was out. The children stared at her white gloves as they left, certain they hid a wolf’s claws.
“Good afternoon, señorita. I would like you to allow my only daughter into your temple of knowledge. She’s eleven years old and can neither read nor write.”
“Eleven years old and illiterate? That’s atrocious!” The young miss glanced down at Manuela’s cotton-sheathed hands. “Say no more. Bring her tomorrow and we’ll straighten this out.”
From the time her daughter turned six, Manuela had had everything ready for the first day of school: colored pencils, sheets of paper, a book bag, and, most important of all, a white cotton hat she had enlarged as each year passed and Olvido grew. Manuela was determined to hide the girl’s face; life had taught her that nothing brought dishonor like extreme beauty, and school would be full of adolescent boys.
Manuela woke her daughter at dawn and led Olvido to her room. Armed with sewing scissors, she cut a swath of hair to create bangs that fell below Olvido’s eyes.
“Now, listen very carefully: if you brush your hair from your face, I will cane you.” Lilac-colored light from the yard infused the room.
“Yes, Madre.”
Manuela put the white hat on her daughter’s head; stiff strands of black hair poked through the lace border encircling her forehead.
“Now, go bathe and put on the clothes I set out for you.”
“Yes, Madre.”
In the pine forest a magpie cawed, and the sound of distant gunshots drifted on the breeze.
Olvido put on an ankle-length brown wool dress and slid her feet into boots two sizes too big. She had toast with butter and a glass of milk, then went into the entryway to wait for her mother. Standing on the clay tiles, watching her approach with a leather strap in her gloved hand, Olvido shivered. The smell of toasted bread still pervaded the house. Any thought of a caress or a kiss was swept from Olvido’s mind. Silently, Manuela circled the girl’s throat with the strap and sewed the ends to either side of her hat.
“I’ll undo this when you get home.”
“But it looks like the helmets soldiers wear to war.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
A cool fog still lay across that September morning, and Manuela disappeared into it on her way to the stable. Olvido watched this phantom breath swallow her whole, afraid the morning might be only a dream. She so wanted to go to school and make friends. She rubbed the bangs across her eyes and said her name out loud. The horse’s black head, with his crystal gaze and curly mane, emerged from the fog, then his square chest in its harness and his big horseshoed hooves that clattered like rain. Next she saw the cart and, on the seat, Manuela’s blood-red shawl and spite-filled face.
The fog disappeared as they came into town. The horse’s hooves on cobblestones sounded like a hailstorm. As the cart crossed the town square, a few women carrying laundry baskets watched it go down the street toward the school.
Children’s voices drifted out through the window. They were reciting the names of all the rivers in Spain.
“Go on in. It’ll be fine. It’s respectable to learn how to read and write.”
Olvido got down from the cart. Her mother snapped the reins and disappeared to the rumble of a pending storm. Olvido put her hand on the doorknob and pushed into the unknown. The door opened slowly. She walked down the hall to the room where the voices could be heard. Maps hung on the side walls, and a chalkboard was situated at the front. Sitting at their desks, her classmates stared. Olvido smiled, feeling every pair of eyes on her clothes, on her skin. As the teacher introduced the “new girl,” Olvido walked toward her desk, but someone tripped her and she fell. A tide of laughter rippled through the classroom.
“Clumsy! You’re a stupid, clumsy monster!”
The young schoolteacher helped Olvido to her feet, leading her by the arm to the last row of desks. Then, unable to control her students, she began to write a list of mountain ranges on the board.
Olvido Laguna crumpled over her desk and cried silently. Tears bounced on her desk as a sudden rainstorm pelted the windows.
“Monsters don’t know how to cry, dummy! Don’t you know anything?” the children taunted.
Olvido shut her eyes. She imagined she was climbing onto the thrashed back of her horse, burying her face in its black mane as she disappeared into the woods.
“Don’t you have anything to say, stupid? Don’t you know how to speak? Answer, ugly monster!”
A tall boy in the front row stood and shouted: “Shut up! Leave her alone!”
His classmates looked up in surprise. It was the schoolmaster’s son, the boy who smiled at Olvido after church these last few years. His name was Esteban.
“You shut up!” Olvido replied, wiping away her tears. “I don’t need anyone to defend me! I can take care of myself.”
The boy’s gray eyes traveled to the last row of desks to meet Olvido’s enraged gaze. The second their eyes met, the young schoolteacher from the city forgot all about her list of mountain ranges, her naughty pupils, and their hateful parents.
That night, for the first time, Esteban did not think about trenches, rifles firing in the name of freedom, and bodies decomposing beneath the pines, put to death for treason. He did not think about his father or the war that hovered over town like a vulture. He did think about Olvido’s eyes staring at him through strands of dark hair and what happened after school, when his classmates leaped on her, determined to rip off her white hat as she ate a piece of cinnamon cake. He remembered how fearful she’d been as he confronted the boys, yelling, “Cowards! Animals! You don’t hit a girl!” He remembered their insults, the taunts, and the bared teeth threatening him. He remembered that pang he first felt at the church door, as she cowered like an animal trying to escape the rain in a cave, her body shoved against the mildewed wall, her lips dusted with cinnamon. He thought about how much he wanted to touch them but didn’t dare, how he wanted to say, “Don’t be scared. I’ll always protect you, and when I’m bigger, I’ll enlist in my father’s war.” But he said nothing, just held out a hand to help her, which she refused, throwing the cake in his face and running off. “I don’t need anyone to defend me! I don’t need anyone!” she yelled.
Olvido ran home to Scarlet Manor through the pine forest. The leather strap had come undone on one side of her hat. The moment she saw her mother leaning against the iron gate, waiting for her under the funeral bow, she thought of the boy’s gray eyes, big and brave, and the gloveless hand that offered help. Olvido cried not a single tear as Manuela caned her: the only thing that could hurt her now was if she never sa
w Esteban again.
The young schoolteacher from the city did not expect to see Olvido again, but she was wrong. Olvido continued to come to class, wearing her hat. Sitting at a desk in the back row, she covered sheets of paper with simple strokes at first, progressing to meaningless primer phrases such as “mi mamá me mima.” In time, the taunts no longer bothered her. Whenever they were hurled, she felt Esteban’s stormy eyes, his soldier’s haircut, and his chin held high, defying them all.
“I told you chickens to leave her alone!”
“You leave me alone! I can defend myself!”
The boy’s gaze would grow even stormier, and he would purse his lips, but he never gave up.
One morning in May of 1937, Esteban’s father was found dead on the road that led through the pine forest to town. He was on his way home for a few days’ leave, but someone ended that, blasting his torso open with a shotgun. For a time it was rumored that the other side not only killed him but ripped out his intestines as well.
Her face flushed, the young schoolteacher from the city announced the news in class.
“Our dear Esteban will not be in class today. Let’s say a prayer for his entrails,” she said, coughing, “for his father, I mean, who went to heaven in a warrior’s clothes.”
It took Olvido Laguna, who had just turned twelve, a moment to process what happened. Then, to the surprise of her teacher and classmates, she stood and ran from the room.
Olvido headed through the square and up the hill to the cemetery. She found a place to hide among headstones and crosses, not far from where the schoolmaster’s coffin was being lowered into his grave. The funeral cortège was a cluster of black surrounding the hole. The widow leaned against her daughter, the daughter supporting her mother’s pain, and squeezed her son’s arm with her hand, disfigured by years of mending socks. Behind the family were several townspeople. At the head of them all, Padre Imperio splashed holy water and delivered his words in Latin over the grave. The coffin bumped the ground as it hit bottom, and the group began to splinter. The only ones who stood firm were the widow and her daughter; even Esteban walked away. He would enlist, disguise his thirteen years in the vengeance of a sixteen-year-old boy, and kill the traitors who murdered his father. Olvido followed. Crickets sang as the sun burned the ground, which smelled like a mash of poppies and daisies.
“Hi.” Olvido stepped out from behind a cross.
Esteban’s heart fell onto the headstone of Paquita Muñoz, dead and buried at the age of six.
“They told us at school that your father died.”
“They killed him, the traitors. It’s different. What do you want?” Esteban was wearing a brown corduroy suit with a black armband.
“I ran here because I’ve never seen a funeral.”
“Liar.” The boy stuffed a hand into his pocket.
Olvido averted her eyes from his and stared into the furrow in his chin.
“And I came to comfort you because I thought you’d be sad.”
“I’ll be a soldier soon, and soldiers can’t be sad. They have to be brave to go fight on the front.”
“I think you must be a little sad.”
“Even if I were, I wouldn’t want your help. You never let me defend you.”
“I can go if you like.”
“No. The cemetery is no place for a girl. I’ll walk you home. Soldiers have a duty to watch over women.”
The breeze from the pine forest carried the smell of rockrose, thyme, and ferns up to the treetops. Esteban walked with his head down, while Olvido chattered about the honeysuckle that grew in her yard and the black horse that had the longest, curliest mane in the world. Esteban would glance at her every now and then, and every time he caught her staring at his hands. Worried, he glanced down to see whether his nails might be dirty. Suddenly, Olvido tripped over a rock and bumped into his arm.
“Sorry,” she apologized, brushing her bangs from her eyes.
“That’s all right. Do you want me to take your hand?”
Olvido had imagined his touch over and over again. She had even dreamed of it. Skin without white cotton gloves.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Gosh, you’re stubborn.”
“So are you!”
“I kept insisting because you did. A soldier shouldn’t let a woman be insulted. Besides, you’re not like the other girls.”
“Look, there’s my house.”
The roof of Scarlet Manor filled the horizon. They walked in silence until they could see the front of the house, peeking out through the rain and the yard’s fertile mist. A shiver ran through Esteban’s body. His parents had told him about that hellish house, that wicked women lived there. He remembered how he and his friends would play a game that made the hair on their arms stand on end: “You’re a chicken if you don’t touch the gate at Scarlet Manor. Coward! Chicken!”
His mouth dry, Esteban would run to touch the iron bars and race back to his friends in the forest to celebrate his bravery.
“You’d better go. My mother will be angry if she sees you. She’s got quite a temper.”
The aroma of the dish Manuela had simmering on the stove floated out through a window.
“It smells delicious.”
“My mother’s making lunch. She’s an excellent cook. If she didn’t get so angry, I’d ask if you could stay for lunch.”
“I have to go home to my mother and sister, but thanks.”
A magpie flew overhead, cawing, followed by a hollow voice: “Olvido Laguna.” Manuela appeared, jailed behind the iron gate. “What are you doing with this boy?”
“Madre, I didn’t hear you. He, he . . .” Olvido stammered. “He’s the schoolmaster’s son. His name is Esteban. I went to his father’s funeral and—”
“So you’re the schoolmaster’s son,” Manuela interrupted, scrutinizing the boy. “Yes, indeed. You have his gray eyes.”
“I was just leaving . . . My mother’s waiting for me at home. See you tomorrow, Olvido,” Esteban said, wringing his hands.
“Hold on, boy. Don’t be in such a hurry. Would you like to come in for a minute and taste what I’m cooking?” Manuela smiled. “It’s a very special dish.”
“Thank you, but they’re expecting me at home.” Esteban’s voice shook.
“Olvido, tell your little friend not to be rude and accept my invitation.” Manuela’s dark eyes narrowed.
“Please come in, Esteban. My mother’s cooking is delicious; you’ll see.”
White cotton gloves wrapped around iron bars and pulled the gate open.
“I’ll just have a little taste and then go home.”
Esteban walked up the daisy-strewn cobblestone drive. He did not dare look around; it was as if the hydrangea and morning glories were stalking him, as if they wanted to sink their teeth into him, like prey. He followed Olvido and her mother into the clay-tiled entryway that smelled of herbs and garlic.
The kitchen was huge. In the middle was a wide table where Manuela Laguna eviscerated chickens by the light of the window. Up against the walls were cupboards, the dishes covered with blue checked cloths. On top were straw baskets filled with fruit and vegetables. Pots and pans, ropes of garlic and onions hung from the ceiling.
“Come over to the stove, boy. It smells good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, señora.” Esteban felt dizzy.
Manuela picked up a spoon and stirred the dish with delight.
“It’s tripe with herbs and garlic. Be a good boy and try some.” She scooped up a piece of meat, held it steaming in the spoon. She blew on it several times, offering it to Esteban with a smile. The boy looked at Olvido as he took a bite and slowly chewed. It was hot.
“Could I have another taste?”
“Of course, boy! Eat, eat till you’re full,” Manuela replied, handing him the spoon.
Esteban gulped down several pieces of meat.
“He’s hungrier than a rat,” Manuela murmured.
Olvido and her mother listened as
the boy slurped up some sauce.
“Your daughter’s right: you’re an excellent cook,” Esteban said with his mouth full. “But I better go. My mother will be worried.”
“Listen carefully to what I’m about to say, boy. Tell your mother you’ve been at Scarlet Manor, and tell her what you ate. Oh, and don’t even think about coming back. I don’t want to see you near my daughter ever again!” Manuela’s nose ended in a sharp point. “Now go before I gut you like a rooster!”
“Madre!”
Esteban stood staring at Manuela’s white cotton gloves before racing from the kitchen without saying goodbye. He crossed the parlor, ran down the hall, into the clay-tiled entryway, and out into the yard. From deep inside he could hear the aromatic cadence of his father’s voice repeating: “Go, son! Go and never come back! Run, run . . .” Esteban pulled open the iron gate and fled into the pine forest.
8
ESTEBAN LIVED IN a stone house with black balconies on a narrow street near the school.
“I’m not hungry. I have a headache,” he told his mother and sister, waiting for him in the dining room before a soup tureen.
Esteban locked himself in his room, the scent of herbs and garlic trailing behind him. He slept or tried to sleep the rest of the day, twisting in the sheets as he thought of Olvido’s eyes. He did not get up for dinner and spent the night sweating through nightmares of Manuela Laguna, until dawn broke into a purple blanket of wool.
A shepherd had already seen this in a foul premonition: just after noon, a bomb exploded inside the school. A few seconds earlier what sounded like the buzzing of a giant gadfly was heard in the streets. Up above the townspeople’s gaping mouths came a low-flying silver plane. Several peasant women, who saw it first in their fields, confused it with those silver coffee sets sent by relatives, made of that precious metal the rich women had and that they coveted so, but it passed them by, continuing on to the town square. Women gathered around the fountain commented with trepidation on where that blindingly polished plane might have come from and how striking the pilot looked—this one was wearing a blood-red scarf, hair blowing in the wind, head tilted to one side, glasses shattered.
The House of Impossible Loves Page 10
