The House of the Spirits

by Isabel Allende

  Clara was still young, but to her granddaughter she looked very old because of her missing teeth. She had no wrinkles, and when her mouth was closed she gave the impression of extreme youth because of the innocent look on her face. She wore tunics of raw linen that looked like the robes crazy people wear, and in the winter she wore long woolen socks and fingerless gloves. She laughed at things that were not the least bit funny; on the other hand, she was incapable of understanding any joke, always laughing at the wrong time, and she could become very sad if she saw someone else behaving in a ridiculous fashion. Sometimes she had asthma attacks and would summon her granddaughter with a tiny silver bell she always carried on her person. Alba would come running to embrace her with consoling whispers, since they both knew from long experience that the only cure for asthma is the prolonged embrace of a loved one. She had laughing hazel eyes, shiny hair flecked with white and pulled into an untidy bun from which rebellious wisps escaped, and fine white hands with almond-shaped nails and long ringless fingers, which were useless except when it came to gestures of affection, arranging her divining cards, or putting in her denture before meals. Alba spent the day trailing after her, snuggling into her skirts and begging her to tell one of her stories or move the vases with the power of her mind. She found in her grandmother a sure refuge when she was haunted by nightmares or when her Uncle Nicolás’s training became unbearable. Clara taught her how to take care of birds and speak to each of them in its own language, as well as how to read the premonitions in nature and knit chain-stitch scarves for the poor.

  Alba knew that her grandmother was the soul of the big house on the corner. Everybody else learned it later, when Clara died and the house lost its flowers, its nomadic friends, and its playful spirits and entered into an era of decline.

  * * *

  Alba was six years old the first time she saw Esteban García, but she never forgot him. She had probably seen him before at Tres Marías, on one of her summer journeys with her grandfather. Old Trueba liked to take her out to see the property and—with a sweeping gesture that took in everything in sight, from the meadows to the volcano to the little brick houses—tell her that she must learn to love this land because one day it would be hers.

  “My children are all fools. If they inherited Tres Marías, in less than a year it would be a ruin again, just as in my father’s day,” he told his granddaughter.

  “All this is yours, Grandfather?”

  “Every bit of it. From the Pan-American highway to those mountaintops over there. You see them?”

  “Why, Grandfather?”

  “What do you mean why? Because I’m the owner!”

  “But why are you the owner?”

  “Because it belonged to my family.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they bought it from the Indians.”

  “And what about the tenants who’ve always lived here? Why aren’t they the owners too?”

  “Your Uncle Jaime is putting Bolshevik ideas into your head!” Senator Trueba would roar, sputtering with rage. “Do you know what would happen here without a patrón?”

  “No.”

  “The place would go to hell! There would be no one to give orders, sell the crops, take responsibility for things—you understand? No one to take care of people, either. If anyone got sick or died or left a widow with a lot of kids, they’d all starve to death. Everyone would have a little piece of land that wouldn’t produce enough for them to eat. They need someone to do their thinking for them, someone around to make decisions, someone to help them. I’ve been the best patrón around, Alba. I may have a bad temper, but I’m fair. My tenants live better than a lot of people in the city. They lack for nothing, and even when there’s a drought, or a flood, or an earthquake, I see to it that no one suffers here. And that’s exactly what you’ll have to do when you’re old enough. That’s why I bring you to Tres Marías—so that you’ll learn to know each stone and each animal and, above all, each person, by their first and last name. Do you understand?”

  But in fact she had very little contact with the peasants and was far from knowing each of them by name. This was why she failed to recognize the swarthy, awkward, slow-moving young man with the cruel eyes of a rodent who knocked one afternoon at the door of the big house on the corner. He was wearing a dark suit that was much too tight for him. The cloth was worn to a shiny film on his knees, elbows, and behind. He said he wanted to speak to Senator Trueba and introduced himself as the son of one of the tenants from Tres Marías. Despite the fact that in normal times people of his condition entered through the service entrance and waited in the pantry, he was shown to the library, because that day there was a banquet in the house that was to be attended by the whole directorate of the Conservative Party. The kitchen had been invaded by an army of cooks and their helpers whom Trueba had borrowed from the club, and there was such confusion and pressure that a visitor would have got in the way. It was a winter afternoon, and the library was dark and silent, lit only by the fire that was dancing in the chimney. It smelled of furniture polish and leather.

  “Wait here, but don’t touch anything. The senator will be in shortly,” the maid said brusquely, leaving him alone.

  The young man ran his eyes over the room, without daring to make the slightest movement, simmering with resentment at the thought that all this might have belonged to him if only he had been legitimate; his Grandmother Pancha García had explained it to him many times before she died of chicken fever and left him a true orphan in that crowd of brothers and cousins where he was nobody. Only his grandmother had paid him any attention, and she never let him forget that he was different from the others because the patrón’s blood ran in his veins. He felt suffocated as he looked around the library. The walls were covered with shelves of polished mahogany except on either side of the fireplace, where there were two glass cases filled with marble and hard stones from the Orient. The room was two stories high, the only whim of the architect that Esteban Trueba had consented to. A balcony, to which one ascended via a spiral staircase made of wrought iron, took the place of the second story of shelves. This was where the finest paintings in the house were kept, for Esteban Trueba had made this his refuge, his office, his sanctuary, and he liked to have his most cherished objects close beside him. The shelves were filled from floor to ceiling with books and objets d’art. There was a heavy Spanish-style desk, huge black leather armchairs with their backs to the window, four Persian carpets on the oak parquet, and several reading lamps with parchment shades, strategically placed so that no matter where one sat there would always be good light for reading. This was where the senator preferred to hold his meetings, weave his intrigues, forge his deals, and, in his lonely hours, closet himself to release his rage, his frustrated desire, or his sorrow. But none of this was known to the peasant standing on the carpet, unsure of where to put his hands and perspiring heavily. That majestic, heavy, crushing library was exactly like the image he had of the patrón. He shuddered with hate and fear. He had never been in such a place, and until this moment he had thought that the most luxurious spot imaginable was the movie house in San Lucas, where the schoolteacher had once taken the whole class to see a Tarzan movie. It had not been easy for him to arrive at this decision, to convince his family, and to make the long trip to the capital alone and without a centavo to speak with the patrón. He could not wait till summer to tell him what was lodged in his chest. Suddenly he felt he was being watched. He turned around and found himself face to face with a little girl with braids and embroidered socks who was staring at him from the doorway.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Esteban García,” he replied.

  “Mine is Alba Trueba. Will you remember my name?”

  “I will.”

  They stared at each other a long time, until she began to trust him and came forward. She explained that he would have to wait, because her grandfat
her had still not returned from Congress, and she told him that there was a mob of people in the kitchen on account of the party, and promised him that later on she would bring him some sweets. Esteban García felt more comfortable. He sat down in one of the black leather armchairs and little by little drew the child toward him and sat her on his knees. Alba smelled of bay rum, a sweet, fresh scent that mingled with the natural smell of sweaty little girl. The boy put his nose against her neck and inhaled that unknown perfume of cleanliness and well-being; without knowing why, his eyes filled with tears. He felt that he hated this little girl almost as much as he did old Trueba. She embodied everything he would never have, never be. He wanted to hurt her, destroy her, but he also wanted to continue smelling her, listening to her baby’s voice, and having her soft skin within reach of his hand. He stroked her knees, just above the border of her embroidered socks. They were warm and had little dimples. Alba continued chattering about the cook who had stuck walnuts up the chickens’ tails for the evening meal. He closed his eyes. He was shaking. With one hand he encircled the child’s neck. He felt the tickle of her braids against his wrist and squeezed ever so gently, aware that she was so tiny he could strangle her with very little effort. He wanted to do it, feel her writhing and kicking at his knees, squirming as she fought for air. He wanted to hear her moan and die in his arms. He wanted to pull off her clothes. He felt violently aroused. With his other hand he ventured beneath her well-starched dress, running his fingers up her child’s legs until he found the lace of her batiste petticoats and her woolen drawers with their elastic bands. He was panting. In a corner of his brain he had just enough sanity left to realize that he was poised on the edge of a bottomless pit. The child had stopped talking and was very still, staring up at him with her huge black eyes. Esteban García took her hand and placed it on his stiffened sex.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Your penis,” she replied, for she had seen it in the illustrations of her Uncle Jaime’s medical books and on her Uncle Nicolás whenever he walked around naked doing his Oriental exercises.

  He jumped. He stood up suddenly and she fell to the carpet. He was surprised and frightened. His hands were shaking, his knees had become weak, and his ears were burning. Just then he heard Senator Trueba’s footsteps in the hallway and seconds later, before he could catch his breath, the old man walked into the library.

  “Why is it so dark in here?” he roared in his earthquake of a voice.

  Trueba turned on the lights and seemed not to recognize the young man who was staring wild-eyed at him. He stretched his arms out to his granddaughter and she ran to him for cover for a moment, like a whipped puppy, but she quickly pried herself free and ran out, shutting the door behind her.

  “Who are you, man?” he spat at the one who was also his grandchild.

  “Esteban García. Don’t you remember me, patrón?” the other managed to stammer.

  Then Trueba recognized the crafty little boy who had betrayed Pedro Tercero years before and who had retrieved his amputated fingers. He understood that it would not be easy to send him away without giving him a hearing, despite the fact that as a rule matters concerning his tenants were supposed to be resolved by the foreman at Tres Marías.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Esteban García hesitated for a moment. He could not find the words he had so carefully prepared for months before daring to knock at the door of the patrón’s house.

  “Hurry up, I don’t have much time,” Trueba said.

  Stuttering, García managed to make his plea: he had completed high school in San Lucas and wanted a recommendation to the police academy and a government subsidy to pay for his studies.

  “Why don’t you stay in the country like your father and grandfather?” the patrón asked him.

  “Forgive me, señor, but I want to be a policeman,” pleaded Esteban García.

  Trueba remembered that he still owed him the reward for betraying Pedro Tercero García, and he decided that this was a good occasion to repay the debt and in the process acquire a useful friend in the police. You never know, he thought; I may need him someday. He sat down at his heavy desk, took out a piece of paper bearing the Senate letterhead, composed the recommendation in the usual terms, and handed it to the young man who stood waiting before him.

  “Here, son. I’m glad you’ve chosen that profession. If you want to go around armed, you might as well be a policeman. That way you have impunity. I’m going to phone General Hurtado, a friend of mine, to make sure they give you the scholarship. If you need anything, just let me know.”

  “Thank you very much, patrón.”

  “Don’t mention it, son. I like to help my people out.”

  He said goodbye to him with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  “Why did they call you Esteban?” he asked him in the doorway.

  “Because of you, sir,” the young man answered, blushing.

  Trueba did not give the matter a second thought. Tenants often used their patrón’s name for their children. It was a sign of respect.

  * * *

  Clara died on Alba’s seventh birthday. The first omen of her death was perceptible only to her. She began to make secret preparations to depart. With great discretion she divided up her clothing among the servants and the followers she always had, keeping only what she absolutely needed. She put her papers in order, and salvaged her notebooks that bore witness to life from the hidden corners of the house. She tied them up with colored ribbons, arranging them according to events and not in chronological order, for the one thing she had forgotten to record was the dates, and in her final haste she decided that she could not waste time looking them up. When she was searching for the notebooks, the jewels began to appear in shoe boxes, in stocking wrappers, and on the bottom shelves of wardrobes, where she had kept them ever since the days when her husband gave them to her hoping to win her love. She placed them in an old woolen sock, fastened it with a safety pin, and handed them to Blanca.

  “Put this away, darling. Someday they may be good for something besides masquerades,” she said.

  Blanca discussed the matter with Jaime and he began to keep an eye on his mother. He noticed that she was leading an apparently normal life but that she barely ate, sustaining herself with milk and a few spoonfuls of honey. Nor did she sleep very much. She spent the night writing or wandering through the house. She seemed to be detaching herself from the world, growing ever lighter, more transparent, more winged.

  “One of these days she’s going to fly away,” Jaime said, worried.

  Suddenly she began to suffocate. She felt the gallop of a wild horse in her chest and the anxiety of a rider rushing headlong into the wind. She said it was her asthma, but Alba noticed that she no longer rang the little silver bell so she would come and cure her with prolonged hugs. One morning she saw her grandmother opening the bird cages with inexplicable joy.

  Clara wrote small cards to each of her loved ones, of whom there were many, and secretly placed them in a box beneath her bed. The next morning she did not get up, and when the maid brought in the breakfast tray she refused to have her open the curtains. She had begun to take leave even of the light, to enter slowly into darkness.

  When he heard about this, Jaime went to see her. He insisted on examining her. He found nothing abnormal in her appearance, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was going to die. He left her room with a broad, hypocritical smile, and once he was out of his mother’s field of vision he had to lean against a wall, because his legs were giving out. He told no one in the house. He called a specialist from the school of medicine, who appeared that very day in the Trueba home. After seeing Clara, he confirmed Jaime’s diagnosis. They assembled the whole family in the drawing room and without much ado announced that she would not live more than two or three weeks and that the only thing to be done was to sit with
her, so that she would die happy.

  “I think she’s decided to die, and science has no cure for that,” said Jaime.

  Esteban Trueba grabbed his son by the collar and was on the verge of choking him. He pushed the specialist out the door and smashed all the lamps and china in the room. Finally he fell to his knees, moaning like a newborn baby. Just at that moment, Alba entered the room and saw her grandfather reduced to her own height. She went up to him and stared him in the eyes, and when she saw his tears she threw her arms around him. It was the old man’s weeping that told her what the matter was. She was the only one in the family who did not lose her serenity, thanks to her training in surmounting pain and the fact that her grandmother had often explained to her the circumstances and rituals of death.