The House of Impossible Loves

by Cristina Lopez Barrio

  The one person Santiago missed was his companion in potions and love, the pharmacist’s granddaughter. She was at university in the provincial capital, studying her family trade.

  Just as he did with Padre Rafael, Santiago used stories and sedatives to distract Olvido from her pain. Whenever she dozed, he would sit on the porch and think of Úrsula, write her poems, read her novels. Once phone service had been reconnected, he would call her late at night. Often there was no answer, and he would imagine her working in the desert dust of parchment scrolls.

  One morning, when he had been at Scarlet Manor for nearly six weeks, Santiago woke in tears and knew that would be the day. He carried his grandmother out to the honeysuckle clearing and, lying in the sun, wrote his last poems about the passion of nature while she read Saint John of the Cross. Then he took her into the kitchen—Olvido now a sparrow on the wings of death—where they made rabbit with onions, cinnamon cake, and palmiers, though her stomach refused to admit a single bite. They napped in chairs on the porch, comforted by the yard’s fertile murmuring, and when the sun set, Santiago lit the fire and told stories for Olvido to finish. But the end did not come. Santiago held on to the hope that, for the first time, his dreams had been wrong.

  “Why are you smiling?” his grandmother asked.

  Santiago held her tight, and Olvido watched her life rush backward to that Sunday when he sucked at her empty breast in the pine grove inundated by the deluge.

  Olvido went to bed early. Afraid it might happen near midnight, Santiago waited for his grandmother to fall asleep and sat in the easy chair Manuela Laguna once profaned to watch his grandmother breathe. He prayed to Saint Pantolomina of the Flowers, prayed to her iris-filled hair with the faith of the truly desperate. It was after twelve when he went back to his room, where he kept praying until overcome by exhaustion.

  The next morning Olvido was miraculously better. She got out of bed with no pain, no fever, the color of the hills in her cheeks.

  “You can go back to her now,” she told her grandson as she prepared breakfast.

  But Santiago waited another week in case she suffered a relapse. Despite his premonition, Olvido had been granted respite among the living, for her eyes had yet to witness one last wonder.

  25

  OCTOBER HAD BLANCHED the color from Úrsula Perla Montoya’s face. Madrid was its usual frenzy of activity andcafés con leche. The day dawned to a blue sky dotted with chubby clouds. Santiago still smelled of the train when he reached the city, when he reached Úrsula’s apartment and she opened the door, nausea in her cheeks, bathed in perspiration unusual for early fall. The moment Santiago saw her, transparent in a white nightgown, he realized he would have loved her even if she had never appeared in his dreams, even if she had not emerged from his wrist in a puff of smoke. He would have fallen in love with her anyway, the first time he saw her writing with a quill, fanning herself half-naked; smiling as she lunched on a sandwich, delighting in his stories, her face bathed in moonlight, reciting her grandmother’s poems. And even if he could not have her, he thought as he held her by the waist, he would still love her in a state of platonic ecstasy for which there was no cure, not even in death.

  “I missed you so much . . .” he said.

  Úrsula pulled back and slapped his face. In accordance with his Christian upbringing, Santiago offered the other cheek as his skin burned red. Úrsula had ink spots on her lips, her neck, her hands, as if she had rolled in the quagmire of violet loss. Her fingers still hurt from her feverish scrawling that night and many other nights, when the tip of her pen hurtled forward out of a desire for his return. She had written like a wild woman, feeding on the inspiration he sowed in her belly, living for and because of it, scorched by the ice of remembering but not having him there, of waiting but not hearing him arrive. She had written hundreds of reckless pages, the best of her literary career as a romance novelist, and ripped them up at the first glimmer of dawn, lost in the madness of wanting to write them all over the next day, to feel him even more—if that were even possible. She had ripped them up in the fury of passion but also a fear of losing him, a fear of finishing the novel her editor was demanding, a fear that the void of being without it would drain her of him, banish her forever to the divan of forgotten novels and forgotten men, to continue a cycle of affairs that come and go, inspire and die. And yet, part of Úrsula wanted to go back to the peace of a routine that, until then, had provided her with precisely the right impetus. Too late, she thought, looking into Santiago’s eyes, damning his beauty, his absurd youth, his infuriating voraciousness in love, the memory of which would not let her sleep. She damned the torment that was pleasure, the pleasure that was fear, the fear that sparked hate. Santiago kissed her on the mouth, pulling him to her, fierce, tearing sleep away with his hands, tearing her nightie, her conscience, as the Laguna child that swam inside her recognized the taste of its father.

  Úrsula continued to write throughout her pregnancy, weaving a shroud of Penelope from words that unraveled in the morning as she watched Santiago sleep in her bed. She continued to write and rewrite when he began to draw woodland creatures on her growing belly, when he covered it in kisses, as happy as in his messianic years; she continued to write and rewrite after autumn days spent reading to him from her grandmother’s dusty scrolls; she continued to write and rewrite after winter walks in luminous cold that hurried them home to their amorous romps; she continued to write and rewrite the snowy day when Santiago held her from behind and whispered “Marry me,” as she laughingly reminded him of the story in her last novel.

  “A love that’s not free is miserable. Look what happened to the divan lovers: every move was calculated so no part of her body could leave its bounds, and that slavery was the end of them.”

  Úrsula continued to write and rewrite when Santiago countered with how the story ended.

  “But remember, when they could not vanquish the genie’s spell, the desert man wished only to suffer the same fate as his lover. Remember, that one evening the sorceress slave brought the genie to the bedchamber. When he found the maiden on the divan, in all her glorious nudity, he was so furious he cast another spell at the precise moment the desert man appeared, and he, too, became a diamond. And so they suffered their eternal condemnation together.”

  Úrsula continued to write and tear up her work while assuring her editor the novel would be ready in a few more months, as she worked away, promising not to rip up any more pages on afternoons when Santiago was at an Atlético match with Isidro or evenings when he was performing in a café.

  But none of it was any use. At nearly eight months pregnant, Úrsula Perla Montoya continued to write and rip, even the spring afternoon when she fell asleep on the scrolls and dreamed of a gate with a funeral bow welcoming guests, a manor house painted scarlet red surrounded by an enormous yard and a woman who looked like Santiago waiting for her in a clay-tiled entryway. Úrsula watched a profusion of daisies, roses, and honeysuckle take root in her belly and woke with the taste of acorns in her mouth. She was so unsettled by this dream—which repeated whenever she napped, on nights interrupted by countless trips to relieve herself—that one radiant morning she said to Santiago, enveloped in the delirium of Persian eyes: “Take me to Scarlet Manor.”

  Úrsula continued to write and rip up pages when, moved by the wisdom of blessed Saint Pantolomina, Santiago granted her wish in order to placate fate. One late-March afternoon, with the baby turning somersaults the closer they came, Úrsula looked out the taxi window at the fountain with its three spouts, the church with its medieval tombs where her lover had lived, the pine grove split by an asphalt scar, and her dreams paved the way to reality: the gate, the bow, the house, the woman in the hall who swept Santiago into an embrace and kissed her affectionately on the forehead.

  “Úrsula Perla Montoya, what a lovely name. Welcome to Scarlet Manor.”

  “Thank you. Would you mind if I rest for a while? It was an exhausting trip.”

 
; “Let me show you to the biggest bed in the house. It’s where you belong now,” Olvido said, taking her by the arm.

  Ever since Santiago phoned to say they were coming, Olvido knew Úrsula had come to give birth to another Laguna child. And so it was. The moment Úrsula stepped into Clara Laguna’s room, she recognized the aroma as the one in her mouth day in and day out. Olvido pulled back the heavy quilt and helped her climb into bed as Santiago watched from the door. It was then Úrsula’s belly constricted, hurtling toward the agony of contractions. The child refused to wait. Ashen, Úrsula moaned and writhed on that mattress of revenge. She spread her legs and a torrent of water rushed out. Santiago, who had gone to her when the pain first started, asked Olvido: “What’s happening?”

  “Call the doctor. She’s in labor. This is going to be one active, intelligent child! The baby knew precisely where to be born, and the minute it arrived, it gave in to the desire to greet this world. There wasn’t even time to eat the lamb with raspberry sauce I made.”

  The blond doctor, who still lived in town, who still harbored secrets in his medical bag, secrets of a lemon and baking soda cure for jealousy, needle and thread for attempted suicide, arrived two hours later. Possessed by the power of desert storms, Úrsula Perla Montoya pushed with all her might, while Santiago held her hand and mopped her brow. With every push that brought the birth closer, Olvido grew weaker. She helped the doctor, passing his instruments, bringing warm water and clean cloths. But when the child’s head appeared, Olvido’s hands began to shake, fever returned to her cheeks, and pain crushed her bones once again. She excused herself as best she could, walked into the hallway and breathed deeply until she heard Santiago say: “Abuela! Abuela! The baby’s here!”

  The magic of a baby girl was born in the last light of sunset. Her eyes were open, as lucid and clairvoyant as her father’s dreams, an amber color like wheat and autumn beech trees that filled the room with the rustle of Moorish pants. The doctor picked her up by the ankles and smacked her on the bum, but she was entirely unperturbed. The girl was distracted, inhaling a whiff of chicken blood that crept in through the door, and smiled when she heard a lament in the language of the spirits that another bastard Laguna girl had been born.

  “Is the baby all right?” Santiago asked.

  “Couldn’t be better. She simply doesn’t want to cry,” the doctor replied in surprise.

  He wrapped the baby in a towel and set her on her mother’s chest. Still flushed from the effort, Úrsula looked at her with curiosity and realized those dreams were never hers but her daughter’s, that the girl was finally where she wanted to be. Úrsula could write without sacrificing another page, could write a novel that just might be as eternal as springtime at Scarlet Manor.

  Santiago leaned in and kissed each of them softly on the lips.

  “A beautiful Laguna girl,” he said, staring into his grandmother’s eyes, “but she won’t suffer like us.”

  Olvido, who had filled the blue arabesque basin with water, took her great-granddaughter from Úrsula’s arms and bathed her as the pain of doubt shot through her heart. This was all she had the energy to do. It was Santiago’s time now. She handed him the baby and took refuge in her room.

  Olvido did not see the doctor out when he left after night fell. She lay on her bed to wait and fell asleep. At three o’clock that morning she was woken by a glorious melody as the church bells rang madly. She got up and went to the window; night air slipped in through the hole left to ventilate misfortune. As the melody grew more intense, Olvido smashed the chair against the bricked-up window. She hammered and hammered with one chair leg, splintering her nails, shredding the skin on her fingers. A blast from the pine forest tousled her hair, and the bells’ voices grew into the crashing cymbals of love. Olvido went to Clara Laguna’s room in her nightdress, where Santiago, Úrsula, and the baby slept.

  “Goodbye, Clara. Take good care of them. The baby inherited your eyes, but God willing, she did not inherit our curse.”

  Laughter shook the canopy.

  Olvido walked down the hall and descended the stairs. Starlight slipped in under the door.

  “Goodbye, Madre,” she said in the clay-tiled entryway. “We can settle our score now.” She sensed a puff of lavender escape the linen cupboard but paid no attention.

  Olvido Laguna walked up the daisy-strewn drive, a bunch of virginal irises now among the hydrangea and morning glories, left the funeral bow behind, and set off down the road, following the joyous bells. The pine forest said goodbye as she went: owls hooted, beech and pine branches whistled, lichen crunched. She was soon in town. Barefoot, her feet had exchanged infirmity for the agility of a teenager. Besieged by fountain spouts in the town square, people hammered on the church door, angry about the rejoicing bells that startled them from sleep. Olvido walked by with her halo of resurrection. Not everyone recognized her—her hair had turned black, her face young, her figure tall and slim—but those who did would forget the sight only when buried in their graves.

  Olvido climbed the hill to the cemetery. The gate was open a crack when she arrived. She pushed it with a trembling hand, and as emotional as a bride walking down the aisle, knowing all has been forgiven, she headed for the old part of the cemetery. Stars put orange blossoms in her hands as rows of cypress trees watched in shadow tuxedoes and magpies with shiny plumage occupied places of honor on vaults and tombs. It was then she saw Esteban waiting for her at the foot of his grave, as smooth-skinned as the young man he never ceased to be, his hair short, his stormy eyes lit up. She said his name, and before she could say “I do” and kiss him, the smell of wood shavings and sawdust overwhelmed her with bliss.

  The undertaker found her dead on her lover’s grave the next morning, the body of a middle-aged woman with a smile on her lips not even the sobriety of the shroud could hide.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to Clara Obligado for all she taught me and her support as I wrote this novel. And to my editor, Alberto Marcos, for his help and encouragement the whole way through.

  Thanks also to Belén Cerrada and Miguel Ángel Rincón, who took me hunting, saved me from computer chaos, and always cheered me on. Finally, to my fellow workshop writers for all the evenings of stories we shared.

  About the Author

  The House of Impossible Loves is CRISTINA LÓPEZ BARRIO’s first novel for adults. It has sold over 100,000 copies and rights have been sold in more than a dozen countries. She is also the author of a prize-winning young adult novel, El hombre que se mareaba con la rotación de la Tierra (The Man Who Grew Dizzy with the Earth’s Rotation). She lives in Madrid.