The House of Impossible Loves

by Cristina Lopez Barrio

  One afternoon, after the radio show, he curled up on a pew in the chapel to Saint Pantolomina of the Flowers, and the veil of moonlight fell from the woman’s black pupils, revealing a small, straight nose. Santiago made it a habit to nap there, and a quick snooze offered up geometric cheekbones and ears one stormy night when he could not go home to Scarlet Manor. The more features Santiago saw, the less he recognized her and the more beautiful he found her.

  When only her lips and chin had yet to be discovered, Olvido decided not to mention Ezequiel Montes until spring but to nurture the love she had given her grandson for the last sixteen years. Back were their games and jokes in the kitchen, nipples smeared with sauce, walks in snowy mountains, and afternoons gazing at each other in the room next to the sacristy. Meanwhile, the shepherd, alone in Extremadura, counted the days before he was to return to Castilla, and the ringleted girl dissolved in tears among elixirs in the room behind the pharmacy after Santiago approached at recess one morning, eating a piece of cinnamon cake, and simply said: “We can’t fool around anymore. We can’t even do homework together. I’ve had to sacrifice everything for something greater, but you’d never understand.”

  Santiago’s dreams of fire simply ceased, and no matter how he tried to bring them back, he failed. And yet, the incomplete face of that woman crouched deep down in his heart.

  Nothing could stop the sun’s rays from bringing an end to winter, lime trees bursting into bud, sparrows throwing themselves into the world with a manic trill, bees buzzing among roses like nannies to the dead. Faced with these inescapable signs of spring, nothing could stop Olvido Laguna from heading to the meadow one afternoon, where she found Ezequiel Montes, still smelling of cane fields. They slowly said hello, as if they hardly knew each other, months of silence standing firm between their eyes.

  “How was your trip?”

  “I thought of you and thought it would never end.”

  It was only seven o’clock, but behind the treetops, the moon gave way to clouds. The weight of a storm lay heavy in the sky. The months of silence disappeared, and Ezequiel took Olvido by the waist, kissing her on the lips as lightning flashed. They walked arm in arm to his hut. Firewood crackled in the hearth, the room smelled of evening, and the shadow of the cot wavered large on the wall. Their clothing was soon unbearable. Ezequiel looked stronger, after months on the road. A torrential spring rain poured down on the mountain.

  But before it soaked everything, Santiago arrived home after his radio show; not finding his grandmother there, he set out for the meadow. He crossed the pine forest with freezing hands. He climbed hills not caring that the sky spat rain down on him, until he saw the outline of the hut with its black smoke rising from the chimney, the gleam of fire escaping through the window. Water poured from his hair, plastering his clothes to his skin with the icy chill of a curse, but he trudged up the last bit that separated him from his suspicion. Santiago shook when he opened the door. A blade of wind and rain cut across the naked bodies making love on the cot. Santiago shook when he heard Ezequiel Montes propose marriage at the precise moment he arched his back, pulling away from his grandmother. Santiago grew deathly pale. Night descended over his throat and the ferocious mountain, and Santiago left the door open and ran across the puddle-strewn meadow.

  By the time Olvido reached Scarlet Manor, the house was dark, the entryway dead. She climbed stairs that creaked under her feet. The second-floor hallway opened up, shadows filtering in through balconies, silence like snowfall. She found Santiago in Clara Laguna’s room, seeing him first through the haze of yellow eyes: lying on the bed, his body curled up like a fetus, unmoving, reeking of sorrow.

  Olvido held her grandson’s name on her lips before approaching, finding his eyes swathed in sleep, his skin bright where raindrops had crystallized, smooth and frighteningly cold, his clothes stuck to his skin. It took some doing to undress him; his arms and legs were stiff, and he raved with fiery breath. When she wrapped him in the sheets and quilt he began to tremble, his blue lips pursed, his eyelids grew smaller. He seemed consumed by nightmares. Olvido took off her clothes and, in the skin of another, lay down beside him, pulled him to her, held him tight to offer warmth. Tears snaked from her eyes. The boy’s heart raced in the frenzy of tachycardia, and she wondered what would become of her if she lost him. She pictured her grandson dead, drenched by rain, the reflection of a new absence, a new grave on which to converse with worms. She felt like a heartless wretch for having hurt him, having found him as cold as an icicle. She covered his face with kisses, drowning in the desperation of the steely night; she kissed him more, lost all composure and reason, a moan escaping her throat that brought their bodies together, the same old story of “suffer no more, my child” as he woke from his delirium, his lips heavy with two generations of love, and pressed them to hers over and over again, falling into delirium once more, dreaming of a fire with no ray of moonlight, a fire that burned with such vigor it hardened desire, and he woke, recognizing his grandmother in those caresses, and he cried, and she cried more, they consoled each other in a whisper of kisses, the suck of two bodies that should never, ever touch. They merged in a tumble of “I can’t live without you,” of “nor I without you,” of a search for all the hidden corners of flesh, of loving each and every one of them. Stars filled the room, illuminating a premonition: the purple canopy danced as it had when Scarlet Manor was a brothel, and in a corner Clara Laguna smiled, adjusting a garter on an invisible leg.

  At six o’clock in the morning, Santiago woke with lips raw from the dementia of fever, love, and rain, but the space beside him in bed was empty. His naked reality shattered when he called out to his grandmother in the light and shadow of what he thought was dawn. He heard no reply. Suddenly, he sat up. A whiff of smoke was drifting into the room, choking him. He went to the window, and the dream he thought he was living became a nightmare. The stable was on fire, a fire so big it threatened to devour the clouds.

  Santiago’s eyes clouded with fear. He searched for Olvido in every room on the second floor, calling out to her, his soul shouting itself hoarse. He did not find her. The silence became black smoke creeping in through every crevice. He went down the stairs two by two, stumbling at the bottom, falling onto clay tiles, skinning his knees. He ignored the scrapes and limped to the door, tried to open it, but it was locked from outside. He ran as best as he could to the kitchen, clicked the deadbolt on the door into the garden, filigrees of blood shining on the lettuce and squash. He heard the loud crackle of stable walls, the whinnying of the horse that someone had freed from its stall and was trotting through the yard, its mane inflamed by the wind. It crisscrossed in front of Santiago as he stumbled toward the heart of the fire, as if ordered to stop him from reaching the flames. The boy dodged it and moved forward as his skin boiled, became charred by the smoke.

  Near the stable doors he recognized Olvido’s robe and slippers in a pile on the grass, as if she had wanted to offer herself naked to death. He picked them up and held them to his chest. Four sheep ran past, having escaped from the corral; Santiago watched them and their apocalyptic bleating disappear. The stable walls fell in a burst of fire, and he sat hard on the ground, staying there until firefighters arrived with their sirens to stop the house, the rose garden, the woodlands, from burning.

  For days, wrapped in the blanket they had thrown around his shoulders, finding not the slimmest ray of moonlight to extinguish the fire in his dreams, he watched the entire town parade before his grief, offering condolences, staring into the grave where the most beautiful woman in the world must lie. For all that they searched, no body, not a single scorched bone could be found. Padre Rafael gave him food and water, cleaned the grief from his wounds, watched over him at night, waiting patiently for Santiago to be ready to come and live with him.

  There was now not a single Laguna woman left to be saved, just a young man sitting on soft earth.

  19

  “THEY SAY THAT a long, long time ago, a young
man named Esaín challenged the sea, chaining him to a eucalyptus tree for one hundred days. They say that from a long, long time before that, there was an alliance between the sea and the men of a great town. Every August full moon, the town chief would set a fisherman’s clothes on the golden beach. The sea would arrive in a giant wave after midnight, soak the clothes, and assume human form. Stuffed into flannel pants and a puffy, white shirt, he would walk through the streets and squares; he would drink the wine from any barrel he passed and lay with the most beautiful women. With the first rays of dawn, he would return to the beach and shed those magic clothes, his body, still drunk on wine and flesh, dissolving into a wave. In exchange, the sea had given people the gift of tears to be cried whenever they were sad—for nothing alleviated misfortune like tears—and a promise to respect the lives of all fishermen.

  “One tragic year, the town chief died and was succeeded by Esaín, his firstborn son. He was a brave young man, known since youth for his skill and strength in hand-to-hand combat, as well as his noble heart. Esaín had a younger sister. When their father died, already orphaned of their mother, Esaín had to take care of her. The girl had a name pronounced differently in four separate languages and, at just eleven years of age, was possessed of unparalleled beauty and a voice that could bewitch the mermaids themselves. In the primitive light of dawn, she would go to the golden beach to sing and dance on its dunes, bells on her ankles and ribbons on her wrists. The sea would watch her through its waves—her svelte figure, dark hair in the breeze like a pirate flag—listen to her laugh, listen to her dream with dark eyes that never left him. In the evenings, when the girl returned home to a stone house surrounded by eucalyptus trees high on a hill, the tide would leave the beach, traverse the streets and squares to arrive at her door like a thin, silent tongue, climb the wall to peer in the window and watch her sleep curled in her bed. The townspeople knew it was the first time the sea had ever fallen in love. Knowing this, Esaín feared that, when dressed as a man, the sea would possess his sister, take her to his depths, and he would never see her again. And so, when the August full moon came, he left a vagabond’s rags on the beach. As always, shielded by the moon, the sea soaked the clothes, but his body remained liquid and cold. Furious at this betrayal shattering their alliance, he flooded houses, streets, and fields in a tempest, asking the townsmen with a frothy throat why such deceit after centuries of living in peace. Fearing for their lives, they confessed who was to blame and where he lived but refused to say any more in case the sea’s fury were to grow and destroy them in his waves.

  “The sea immediately recognized the traitor’s house as belonging to the girl he adored, but this time he climbed high on the hill in a roaring wave, tossing bits of algae in the air. Esaín and his sister had run into the eucalyptus forest to escape him. Towering cumulous clouds swirled in the sky, and the moon grew as pale as the face of a dead man. The sea followed them through the woods, trailing seashells, froth, and gasping fish among the treetops. He had no trouble following their trail, for the girl was crying in fear and the sea could smell her tears, made, as they were, of his water. He reached them near a cliff where the forest ended. Esaín hid his sister behind some rocks and came out to confront the monster howling with a hurricane wind.

  “‘If you want to be a man, then fight like one,’ Esaín said, tossing the magic clothes he carried into a sack.

  “The moon grew even more pale as waves broke against the clothes, submerging them in a foamy crash, and the sea became a stout man with an icy gaze.

  “‘Here I am, boy. Now you’ll pay for having kept me from your wine and warm flesh.’

  “They dove into a ferocious battle. Even though Esaín was strong and skillful, the sea surpassed him, for his arms held all the power of storms. He threw the young man onto the ground and choked him. That’s when Esaín’s sister came out from her hiding place to stare with dark eyes at the sea. The sea felt love weaken his arms. Esaín flipped him over and held him to the ground.

  “‘Dance!’ he ordered his sister.

  “The girl danced like she did on the sand at dawn. The sea’s flesh turned fiery. Esaín let go so as not to be burned and ordered his sister to stop. Then he spoke in the language of the trees to a great, ancient eucalyptus, which pulled its roots out of the ground and bound the sea to its trunk. The next morning Esaín circled the sea’s arms and legs with chains, holding him prisoner at the mercy of the sun and the wind.

  “The townspeople soon suffered the consequences. As each day passed, the vast surface once occupied by the sea blurring into an ephemeral horizon became a desert where not even a weed could grow. Fishing boats became skeletons of wood and salt, and men lost all memories of their lives as they forgot the taste of fish. Their grief was worse than ever before, with no tears to cry. The town elders grew invisible when a famine as silver as the August moon gripped homes and the hearts that dwelled inside. After one hundred days, men gathered outside Esaín’s house high on the hill and begged him to let the prisoner go. He was suffering the same fate and gave in to their pleas.

  “Up on the cliff, Esaín found his sister, dancing and singing around the sea as he cried crusts of salt and his chains grew red hot, singeing his human flesh. For one hundred days, the girl had been the only one to keep the sea alive. She had fed him spoonful by spoonful, offered him drink, protected him from the sun with a straw hat.

  “‘Go home,’ Esaín ordered his sister. ‘I’m going to set him free.’

  “She slipped into the eucalyptus woods but, rather than obey her brother, hid behind a tree. From there she could watch Esaín remove the chains and the roots release the sea. A late-winter afternoon, warm and weak, hung over the cliff. The sea’s body fell to its knees on the ground, spent. The girl wanted to run to his aid but feared this would anger her brother and stayed hidden behind the minty aroma.

  “‘You’re free,’ Esaín said. ‘You can go.’

  “‘You will pay dearly for your audacity,’ the sea mumbled, looking at him for the last time as a man.

  “The sea shed his pants and white shirt and, when not a thread remained on his skin, dissolved into an immense ocean that dove off the cliff. Esaín thought it was all over but soon heard his sister scream from the woods.

  “‘Watch out, Esaín! Behind you! Behind you!’

  “He turned and saw that the sea had silently climbed back up the rocks to take his revenge. Esaín jumped into the puffy shirt and flannel pants. Before his sister’s frightened eyes, he became a frothy wave and threw himself off the cliff, with the sea.

  “They say the girl ran to the edge and watched as one wave swam in the opposite direction of all the rest. They say that to alleviate his loved one’s sorrows, the sea gave tears back to men, though fishermen never set sail with them. They leave them at home, in the care of their mothers and wives, so the sea cannot track and shipwreck them. But they also say that if, despite this precaution, the sea does find them, a wave will sometimes break on the horizon, pick them up, and carry them safely to shore.”

  Standing on a dimly lit stage in a Madrid café, Santiago Laguna listened to the applause. Cigarette smoke swirled around young faces at tables, rising to the ceiling, where fans sliced it to ribbons. “Tell your great-grandmother’s stories to the world,” Padre Rafael had said on his deathbed, patting his hand. “You were born to be an artist.” And Santiago had listened.

  During the agonizing months the priest was confined to bed with kidney failure, reduced to the size of a normal man, the only thing that soothed his pain was Manuela Laguna’s stories. Santiago sat by his bedside day and night as the replacement priest, just out of the seminary, kindly set himself up in a little house next door. Padre Rafael insisted on dying in his own bed, and neither his doctor’s recommendation that he be admitted to the hospital nor orders from his ecclesiastic superiors could change his mind. It was shameful enough, the priest thought, to die at seventy-five when men in his family died in their hundreds and women as old as
tortoises, without ever going to the hospital in their lives.

  The doctor would pay house calls when the priest could no longer stand—much less wreak havoc as in years past. He would listen to the priest’s heart and take his pulse, looking at Santiago with eyes that eliminated any hope. After the doctor left and they were alone, as they had been these last two years, the boy would sit next to Padre Rafael’s bed and tell him a story. The sea bubbled into the parish bedroom, and the priest could sense the irascible Cantabria of his youth, the squawking gulls, the salty breeze, and smell of fish in the market. That first day, Santiago did not tell the end of the story but stopped all of a sudden as tears welled up in memories.

  “Go on, I want to know how it ends,” the priest said.

  “I don’t know, Padre.”

  “Man of God, how can you not know? And if you don’t, then make it up. Just don’t leave me hanging.” He squirmed in pain.

  “Easy now, or it’ll only get worse.”

  Santiago began to tell him another story, which he also left unfinished, interlaced with another and yet another, none of them finished. Padre Rafael fell asleep, bewildered by all of these storms, fishermen, and mermaids. The next day, after breakfast, when Santiago asked him if he would like to hear another story, the priest said no, not unless it was told from beginning to end.

  “I tossed and turned all night, caught up in nightmares, trying to figure out how yesterday’s stories ended.”

  His face contorted in a pain that would not be eased by pills.

  “I’m sorry, Padre. You see . . . she was the one, my grandmother, you know . . . I would stop just before, and she would tell the end of the story.” He closed his eyes and felt fire in his heart.