Burnt Water (14 page)

Don Raúl laughed quietly, nodding his head. “That's what you always wanted, Lourdes, how well your son knows you.”

The mother's eyes, proud and despairing, did not leave little Luis's face, denying, denying, with all the intensity her silence could muster. His father was shaking his head: “What a shame that I couldn't give you any of that.”

“You've never heard me complain, Raúl.”

“No,” the father said, “never. But once, way back at the beginning, you told me the things you'd like to have had, only once, more than twenty years ago, but I've never forgotten, though you never said it again.”

“I never said it again, I've never reproached you for anything.” And Señora Lourdes's eyes were on little Luis, in wild supplication.

But the boy was talking about Orizaba now, about the big house, the photographs and postcards, he'd never been there, so he had to imagine it all, the balconies, the rain, the mountains, the ravine, the furniture in that once-opulent house, the friends of a family like that, the suitors, why do you choose one person over another to marry, Mother, aren't you ever sorry, don't you ever dream what life could have been like with another man, and then you write letters to make him think everything worked out, that you'd made the right choice? I'm fourteen, I can speak like a man …

“I don't know,” said Don Raúl, as if coming back from a dream, as if he hadn't followed the conversation too closely. “The Revolution got us all off the track, some for the better and others for the worse. There was one way to be rich before the Revolution, and a different way after. We knew how to be rich in the good old days, but we were left behind, what can you do?” He laughed softly, the way he always laughed.

“I never mailed those letters, you know that very well,” Doña Lourdes said to little Luis in a tight voice as she helped him to bed, as she did every night, the same bed beside Rosa María, who'd fallen asleep at the table.

“Thank you, Mother, thank you for not saying anything about Manuela and her dogs.”

He kissed her affectionately.

*   *   *

All next day Doña Manuelita expected the worst and went around watching for signs of hostility. That's probably why, very early, as she was gathering up her clothing and then watering the geraniums, she knew many eyes were watching her, curtains were silently drawn back, half-opened shutters were hastily shut, dozens of dark eyes, some veiled by the drooping lids of age, some young and round and liquid, were watching her in secret, were waiting for her without saying so, were approving of those tasks she was doing as if seeking forgiveness for what had happened with Lupe Lupita. Doña Manuela finally realized that she was doing these chores so they would be grateful to her, so they would never again throw the business of Lupe in her face. More than ever, that day, she realized that, she knew the arrangement was of long standing, that everyone had come to an understanding without any need for words, they were grateful that she watered the flowers and covered the bird cages, no one was going to say anything about what happened in the Cathedral, no one would humiliate her, everyone would forgive her for everything.

Doña Manuela spent the whole day in her room. She'd convinced herself that nothing was going to happen, but experience had taught her to be wary, alert, keep on your toes, Doña Manuela, best to sleep with one eye open, eh? Brooding in her single room and her kitchen, she fell prey to a strange bitterness, something foreign to her. If they no longer thought ill of her, why hadn't they shown it before? Why, only now that she'd been humiliated in the Cathedral, did everyone in the building respect her? She didn't understand, she just didn't understand. Was it because the Señora Lourdes, Luis and Rosa María's mother, hadn't done any gossiping?

She lay on her cot, staring at the bare walls and thinking about her dogs, how thanks to her, through her, they transmitted their news, how they talked to one another and to her, Cloudy's been hurt, he's curled up by the Sagrario in bad shape, poor thing, let's go pray to God Our Savior and ask Him to keep them from chasing us or abusing us any more, Doña Manuela.

It was the same with her and little Luisito, each could sense what the other felt, if she knew what he was feeling, he must know as well what she felt, they had so many things in common, especially the wheelchair, Luisito's and Lupe Lupita's. Young Pepe, little Luis's brother, took Lupe Lupita from her wheelchair. Manuela had put her there to protect her, not because she herself needed a companion, a servant is always lonely by virtue of being a servant, no, that wasn't it, it was to save her from their appetites, the way they would look at her. General Vergara with his bad reputation, his son Tín, always chasing after servant girls, no, she didn't want them to lay a hand on her Lupe Lupita, no one would try anything with a cripple, they'd feel too disgusted or too ashamed, anyone should know that …

“I'm telling you this now, daughter, now that you've gone forever, it was to save you, I tried to save you from the terrible fate that lies in store for a servant's daughter when she is beautiful, ever since you were a little girl I tried to save you, that's why I named you as I did, twice Lupe, Lupe Lupita, twice virgin, twice protected, my little girl.”

It was a very long day, but Doña Manuelita knew there was nothing to do but wait. The moment would come. She would receive a sign. She'd let herself feel what her friend Luisito was feeling. They had so much in common, the wheelchair, his brother Pepe, who'd ruined La Lupita, and left her with only one of her names, her little girl was gone forever.

“I'm telling you this now, Lupe, now that I'll never see you again … I tried to protect you because you were all your father left me. I loved that bastard more than I loved you, and when I lost him I loved you as I'd loved him.”

Then she heard the first barking in the patio. It was after eleven but Doña Manuela hadn't eaten, lost as she'd been in her thoughts. Never, but never, had one of her dogs come into the patio, they knew all too well the dangers that awaited them there. Another barking joined the first. The old woman covered her head with her black shawl and hurried from the room. The canaries were restless. She'd forgotten to cover them so they could sleep. They stirred uneasily, not daring to sing, not daring to sleep, as during the eclipses that had occurred twice in Manuela's life. The moment the sun had disappeared, the animals and birds had fallen silent.

Tonight, on the other hand, there was a moon and spring-like warmth. Increasingly certain of the meaning of her life, of the role that was hers to play as she waited for death, Doña Manuelita carefully placed the canvas covers over the bird cages.

“There, sleep quiet, this isn't your night, this is my night, sleep now.”

She completed the chore that everyone was grateful to her for performing, the chore she did so they would be grateful and could live in peace, and then she walked to the top of the great stone staircase. As she had known he would, little Luis was there in his wheelchair, waiting for her.

It was all so natural. There was no reason it should be otherwise. Little Luis rose from his chair and offered his arm to Doña Manuela. He stumbled a little, but the old woman was strong, she lent him all her support. He was taller than either of them had supposed, fourteen, going on fifteen, a young man. Together they descended the staircase, little Luisito twice supported—by the stone balustrade and Manuelita's arm. These were the palaces of New Spain, Manuela, imagine the parties, the music, the liveried servants holding aloft sputtering candelabra, preceding the guests on nights of great balls, the scalding wax burning their hands and never a word of complaint. Come with me, Manuela, we'll go together, child.

Señora Manuelita's twenty dogs were in the patio, barking in unison, barking with joy, all of them, Cloudy, the mangy ones, the hungry ones, the bitches swollen with worms or with pregnancy, who knows, time would tell, the bitches who'd recently given birth to more dogs, teats dragging, more dogs to populate the city with orphans, with bastards, with little sons of the Virgin huddling beneath the baroque eaves of the Sagrario. Doña Manuela grasped little Luisito by his belt and took his hand, the dogs barked happily, looking at the moon as if the moonlit night was the first night of the world, before pain, before cruelty, and Manuela led Luisito, the dogs were barking, but the servant and the boy heard music, old old music, music heard centuries ago in this palace. Look at the stars, little Luisito, Lupe Lupita always asked, when do the stars go out? Would she still be asking, wherever she is? Of course she is, Manuela, of course she's asking, dance, Manuela, tell it all to me as we dance together, we're just alike, your daughter and I, Lupe Lupita and Luisito, isn't that right? Yes, yes, it's true, I see the two of you, yes, I see you now, a moonlit, starlit night just like this, dancing a waltz, the two of you together, just alike, waiting for what never comes, what never happens, children in a dream, caught in a dream: don't leave, my son, don't come out to look, stay there, it's better, stay there; but Lupita has gone, Manuela, you and I are left here in the building, it isn't Lupita and I, it's you and I, waiting, what are you waiting for, Manuela? What are you waiting for besides death?

How the dogs bark, that's why the moon's come out tonight, that's the only reason it came out, so the dogs would bark, and listen, Luisito, listen to the music and let me hold you up, how well you dance, child, forget it's me, pretend you're dancing with my beautiful Lupe Lupita, that you have your arm around her waist, and as you're dancing you smell her perfume, you hear her laughter, you look into her startled doe's eyes, and I'll pretend that I still know how to remember love, my only love, Lupe's father, a servant's love, in the dark, groping, rejected, the dark of the night, love that's a single word repeated a thousand times.

“No … no … no … no…”

Dazed by the dancing, intoxicated by her memories, Doña Manuelita lost her footing and fell. Little Luisito fell with her, their arms about each other, laughing, as the music faded and the barking increased.

“Shall we promise to help the dogs, little Luisito?”

“Let's promise, Manuela.”

“You can speak up. The dogs can't. The dogs have to take what they can.”

“Don't worry. We'll look after them always.”

“It isn't true what they say, that I love the dogs because I didn't love my daughter. That isn't true.”

“Of course it isn't, Manuela.”

And only then did Doña Manuelita ask herself why in the midst of all the uproar of barking and music and laughter no one had looked out, no door had opened, no voice had protested. Did she also owe that to her friend little Luis? Did that mean no one was ever going to bother her again, not ever?

“Thank you, child, thank you.”

“Imagine, Manuela, just think. Centuries ago these were palaces, great palaces, beautiful palaces, very wealthy people lived here, very important people, like us, Manuela.”

*   *   *

Around midnight he felt very hungry and got out of bed without waking anyone. He went to the kitchen and, fumbling, found a hard roll. He smeared it with fresh cream and began to eat. Then suddenly he stopped, honor or duty, he didn't know which stopped him. Always before, he'd asked. Even for a roll spread thick with cream. This was the first time he'd taken without asking. He took the dry leftover tortillas and went out to the patio to throw them to the dogs. But they were not there any longer, nor Manuelita, nor the moon, nor the music, nor anything.

The Doll Queen

To María Pilar and José Donoso

I

I went because that card—such a strange card—reminded me of her existence. I found it in a forgotten book whose pages had revived the specter of a childish calligraphy. For the first time in a long while I was rearranging my books. I met surprise after surprise, since some, placed on the highest shelves, had not been read for a long time. So long a time that the edges of the leaves were grainy, and a mixture of gold dust and grayish scale fell on my open palm, reminiscent of the lacquer covering certain bodies glimpsed first in dreams and later in the deceptive reality of the first ballet performance to which we're taken. It was a book from my childhood—perhaps from the childhood of many children—that related a series of more or less truculent exemplary tales which had the virtue of precipitating us onto our elders' knees to ask them, over and over again: Why? Children who are ungrateful to their parents; maidens kidnapped by splendid horsemen and returned home in shame—as well as those who happily abandon hearth and home; old men who in exchange for an overdue mortgage demand the hand of the sweetest, most long-suffering daughter of the threatened family … Why? I do not recall their answers. I only know that from among the stained pages came fluttering a white card in Amilamia's atrocious hand:
Amilamia wil not forget her good friend
—
com see me here wher I draw it.

And on the other side was that sketch of a path starting from an X that indicated, doubtlessly, the park bench where I, an adolescent rebelling against prescribed and tedious education, forgot my classroom schedule to spend some hours reading books which, if not in fact written by me, seemed to be: who could doubt that only from my imagination could spring all those corsairs, those couriers of the tsar, those boys slightly younger than I who floated all day down a great American river on a raft. Clutching the side of the park bench as if it were the bow of a magic saddle, at first I didn't hear the sound of the light steps that stopped behind me after running down the graveled garden path. It was Amilamia, and I don't know how long the child would have kept me company in silence had not her mischievous spirit one afternoon chosen to tickle my ear with down from a dandelion she blew toward me, her lips puffed out and her brow furrowed in a frown.