B004QGYWNU EBOK (9 page)

“I’m going to tell you something you don’t know, stepmother,” Alfonso exclaimed, with a vibrant little gleam in his eye. “You’re in the painting in the living room.”

His face was excited and playful, and he was hoping, with an impish half smile, that she would guess what was behind the hint he had just given her.

He’s a child again, Doña Lucrecia thought from inside the warm cocoon of languor in which she found herself, halfway between sleep and waking. Only a moment before, he had been a youth without scruples, of unerring instinct, riding her like an expert horseman. And now he was a happy child once more, delighting in propounding riddles to his adoptive mother. He was squatting on his heels, naked, at the foot of the bed, and she was unable to resist the temptation to reach out her hand and place it on that fair-skinned thigh, the color of honey, covered with a barely visible down glistening with sweat. That’s what Greek gods must have looked like, she thought. The little cupids in paintings, the pages who were the attendants of princesses, the little genies of
The Thousand and One Nights, the spintria
of Suetonius’ book. She sank her fingers into that young, resilient flesh and thought, with a voluptuous shiver: You’re as happy as a queen, Lucrecia.

“But that’s a Szyszlo in the living room,” she murmured halfheartedly. “An abstract painting, sweetie.”

Alfonsito let out a hearty laugh.

“Well, it’s you,” he declared. And suddenly he blushed to the ears, as though warmed by a strong solar current. “I first noticed this morning. But I won’t tell you how I discovered it, even if you kill me.”

He was overcome by another fit of giggles and let himself fall face down on the bed. He remained in that position for some time, his face buried in the pillow, quaking with laughter. “Whatever notion can you have gotten into that crazy little head of yours now?” Doña Lucrecia murmured, ruffling his hair, as fine as sand or rice powder. “Some bad thought, you bandit, since you’re blushing like anything.”

They had spent the night together for the first time, taking advantage of one of those lightning-quick business trips to the provinces that Don Rigoberto often took. The day before, Doña Lucrecia had given all the servants the night off, so that the two of them were alone in the house. That evening, after having dinner together and watching television as they waited for Justiniana and the cook to leave, they went upstairs to the bedroom and made love before going to sleep. And made love again when they woke up, just a short while later, with the first morning light. Behind the chocolate-colored window blinds, the day soon grew brighter and brighter. There were already the sounds of people and cars in the street. The servants would soon be arriving. They had a hearty breakfast, with fruit juice and scrambled eggs. At noon, she and Alfonsito would go to the airport to pick up her husband. She had never said anything about it to Alfonsito, but they both knew that Don Rigoberto was always delighted to see them there waving to him as he got off the plane, and whenever they could, they gave him that pleasure.

“So I know now what’s meant by an abstract painting,” the youngster reflected, without raising his head from the pillow. “A dirty picture! I had no idea.”

Doña Lucrecia leaned over toward him. She rested her cheek on his smooth back, without a drop of oil on it, gleaming as though with hoarfrost, revealing just the barest hint of his spinal column, like a miniature Cordillera. She closed her eyes and seemed to hear the slow pulse of precocious blood beneath the supple skin. It’s life beating, life living, she thought in amazement.

Since making love with the boy for the first time, she had lost her scruples and that feeling of guilt that had so troubled her before. It had happened on the day following the episode of the letter and his threats to kill himself. It had been something so unexpected that when Doña Lucrecia remembered it, it seemed impossible to her, something not experienced in real life but dreamed of or read about. Don Rigoberto had just shut himself up in the bathroom for his nightly personal hygiene ceremony and she, in a negligee and a nightgown, had gone downstairs to say good night to Alfonsito, as she had promised. The boy leapt out of bed to greet her. Clinging to her neck, he sought her lips and timidly caressed her breasts, as the two of them heard, above their heads, like background music, Don Rigoberto humming an operetta—out of tune, with the water running into the washbasin serving as counterpoint. And, all of a sudden, Doña Lucrecia felt an aggressive, virile presence against her body. It had been more powerful than her sense of danger, an uncontrollable ecstasy. She allowed herself to fall back on the bed as she drew the youngster to her, not at all abruptly, as though fearful of crushing him to bits. Opening her negligee and drawing aside her nightdress, she positioned him and guided him, with an impatient hand. She had heard him work away, pant, kiss her, move, as clumsy and unsteady as a little animal learning to walk. Very soon thereafter, she had heard him let out a moan as he came.

When she went back to her bedroom, Don Rigoberto had not yet completed his toilet. Doña Lucrecia’s heart was a runaway drum, a blind gallop. She felt amazed at her boldness and—she found it hard to believe—eager to embrace her husband. Her love for him had grown. The figure of the child was also there in her memory, filling her heart with tenderness. Was it possible that she had made love with him and was now about to make love with his father? Yes, it was. She felt neither shame nor remorse. Nor did she consider herself a cynic. It was as though the world were docilely submitting to her. An imcomprehensible feeling of pride came over her. “I had a better orgasm tonight than last night, better than ever before,” she heard Don Rigoberto say, later on. “I have no way to thank you for the happiness you give me.” “Nor have I, my love,” Doña Lucrecia whispered, trembling.

From that night on, she was certain that the clandestine meetings with the boy, however obscure and complicated, however difficult to explain, enriched her marital relation, taking it by surprise and thus giving it a fresh start. But what kind of morality is this, Lucrecia? she asked herself in astonishment. How is it possible that you’ve changed this way, at your age, overnight? She couldn’t understand it, and made no attempt to do so. She preferred to bow to this contradictory situation, in which her acts challenged and violated her principles as she pursued that intense, dangerous rapture that happiness had become for her. One morning, on opening her eyes, the phrase “I have won sovereignty” came to her. She felt fortunate and emancipated, but could not have said what it was that she had been freed from.

Perhaps I don’t have the feeling I’m doing something bad because Fonchito doesn’t have that feeling either, she thought, stroking the child’s body with her fingertips. To him, it’s a game, a mischievous prank. And that’s all there is between us; nothing more. He’s not my lover. How could he be, at his age? What was he, then? Her little cupid, she told herself. Her
spintria
. The child whom Renaissance painters added to boudoir scenes so that, by contrast to their aura of purity, the love bout depicted would be the more ardent. Thanks to you, Rigoberto and I love and delight each other all the more, she thought, kissing him ever so lightly on the neck.

“I could explain to you why that painting is a portrait of you—even though it makes me feel funny all over,” the youngster murmured, his head still buried in the pillows. “Would you like me to explain it to you, stepmother?”

“Oh, yes, please do.” Doña Lucrecia fervently examined the sinuous little veins showing here and there just under his skin, like blue rivulets. “How can a painting in which there are no discernible figures, only geometric forms and colors, be my portrait?”

The boy raised his head, with a roguish look on his face.

“Just think about it and you’ll see. Remember what the painting looks like and what you look like. I can’t believe you won’t tumble to the answer right away. It’s as easy as pie! Guess what it is and I’ll give you a reward.”

“Was it only this morning that you noticed that that painting was a portrait of me?” Doña Lucrecia asked, more and more intrigued.

“You’re getting warmer and warmer,” the boy urged her on. “If you keep on the way you’re going, you’re bound to catch on to the answer. Oh, shame on you, stepmother!”

He let out another peal of laughter and hid himself between the sheets again. A little bird had perched on the windowsill and had begun peeping. It was a strident, jubilant sound that speared the morning and seemed to be celebrating the world, life. You’re right to be happy, Doña Lucrecia thought. It’s a beautiful world, worth living in. Peep, little bird, peep.

“So then, it’s your secret portrait,” Alfonsito murmured, drawing out each word and leaving mysterious pauses, seeking to create a theatrical effect. “What nobody knows or sees about you. Only me. And, oh yes, my papa, of course. If you don’t guess now, you never will, stepmother.”

He stuck his tongue out at her and made a face as he observed her with that liquid blue gaze beneath whose innocent crystal-clear surface Doña Lucrecia sometimes seemed to divine something perverse, like those tentacled creatures that dwell in the depths of ocean paradises. Her cheeks burned. Was Fonchito really hinting at what she had just intuitively sensed? Or, rather, did the youngster understand the meaning of what he was hinting at? Only halfway, doubtless, in a vague, instinctive way, beyond his power of reason. Was childhood, then, that amalgam of vice and virtue, of sanctity and sin? She tried to remember whether she, like Fonchito, had been, at some time long before, at once pure and filthy, but it was a memory beyond all recall. She rested her cheek once more against the child’s tawny back and envied him. Oh, if only a person could always act with that half-conscious animal awareness with which he caressed her and made love to her, judging neither her nor himself! I hope you’re spared suffering when you grow up, sweetie, she silently wished him.

“I think I’ve guessed,” she said, after a moment. “But I don’t dare tell you the answer, because, as it happens it’s something dirty, Alfonsito.”

“Of course it is,” the youngster agreed, abashed. His cheeks were flaming red again. “But even if it’s dirty, it’s the truth, stepmother. That’s how you are, too; it’s not my fault. But what does it matter, since nobody will ever find out. Isn’t that so?” And, without transition, in one of those unexpected changes of tone and subject in which he appeared all of a sudden to ascend or descend many steps on the staircase of age, he added: “Isn’t it getting past time to go to the airport to pick up my papa? He’ll feel so bad if we’re not there to meet him.”

What was happening between them had not changed in the slightest—as far as she could see, at any rate—Alfonso’s relationship to Don Rigoberto; it seemed to Doña Lucrecia that the boy loved his father just as much and even more perhaps than before, to judge from the proofs of affection he offered him. Nor did he appear to experience in his father’s presence the least uneasiness or give the least sign of a troubled conscience. “Things can’t be this simple, nor everything turn out this well,” she said to herself. And yet, thus far, they were just that simple, and everything was turning out exactly right. How much longer would this fantasy of perfect harmony last? She told herself once more that if she went about things intelligently and cautiously, nothing would intervene to shatter the dream-come-true that life had turned out to be for her. She was certain, moreover, that if this complicated situation went on, Don Rigoberto would be the fortunate beneficiary of her happiness. But, as always when she thought about this, a presentiment cast its shadow over the Utopia: things turn out this way only in novels and in the movies, woman. Be realistic: sooner or later, the whole thing will end badly. Reality is never as perfect as fiction, Lucrecia.

“No, we still have time enough, my love. It’s more than two hours still before the plane from Piura is due in. Provided it’s on schedule.”

“Well then, I’m going to sleep for a while. I feel so lazy.” The youngster yawned. Leaning to one side, he sought the heat of Doña Lucrecia’s body and lay his head on her shoulder. A moment later, he purred in a muffled voice: “Do you think if I get highest honors over everyone at the end of the school year, my papa will buy me the motorcycle I asked him for?”

“Yes, he’ll buy it for you,” she answered, hugging him gently, cooing to him as to a newborn babe. “If he doesn’t, don’t worry. I’ll buy it for you.”

As Fonchito slept, breathing slowly—she could feel, like echoes in her body, his symmetrical heartbeats—Doña Lucrecia, immersed in a peaceful drowsiness, stayed still so as not to awaken him. Half dissolved in dreams, her mind wandered amid a parade of images, but every so often one of them swam into focus in her consciousness, surrounded by a suggestive halo: the painting in the living room. What the boy had told her worried her a little and filled her with a mysterious malaise, for in that childish fantasy were hints of unsuspected depths and a morbid acuteness of insight.

Later, after getting up and eating breakfast, while Alfonsito took a shower, she went down to the living room and stood contemplating the Szyszlo for a long time. It was as if she had never seen it before, as if the painting, like a serpent or a butterfly, had changed appearance and nature. That little boy is something to be taken seriously, she thought, troubled. What other surprises might lie hidden in that little head of a Hellenic demigod? That night, after picking Don Rigoberto up at the airport and listening to his account of the trip, they opened the presents he had brought back for her and the boy (as he did on every trip), and told him how pleased they were with them: cream custard, whistles, and two finely woven straw hats from Catacaos. Then the three of them had dinner together, like a happy family.

The couple retired to their bedroom at an early hour. Don Rigoberto’s ablutions were briefer than usual. On joining each other in bed once more, husband and wife embraced passionately, as after a prolonged separation (in reality, just three days and two nights). That was how it had always been, ever since they’d been married. But after the initial caracoles in the darkness, when, faithful to the nightly liturgy, Don Rigoberto expectantly murmured: “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am?” he heard this time an answer that broke the tacit pact: “No. You ask me, instead.” There was an astonished pause, like a freeze frame in a film. But a few seconds later Don Rigoberto, a respecter of ritual, caught on and inquired eagerly: “Who, then, are you, darling?” “The woman in the painting in the living room, the abstract painting,” she replied. There was another pause, a little laugh, half annoyed and half disappointed, a long electric silence. “This is no time to…” he started to say in a threatening voice. “I’m not joking,” Doña Lucrecia interrupted him, closing his mouth with her lips. “That’s who I am and I don’t know why you haven’t realized it before.” “Help me, my love,” he said, perking up, coming to life again, moving. “Explain to me. I want to understand.” She explained and he understood.