The Good Conscience (10 page)

“Have you ever fucked a girl, Ceballos?”

A year is to turn down pimply Pepe Mateos' invitations to drink a beer or go to a bordel. A year is a Rosary of acts of constriction in your bedroom. A year is the saying over and over in solitude of the greatest Christian words.

*   *   *

April night. The walls of the house are still warm from the sun. Into every bedroom comes the sound of the great clock in the drawing room. One, two, three, four, all the way to twelve deep-toned gongs; and each who hears mentally visualizes the dance of white wigs and crinolines of the twelve tiny porcelain figures which, when the clock strikes, emerge from the little laquered doors and dance. It is the same clock brought from Madrid by
Don
Higinio. In a moment, Guanajuato's bells will ring midnight too, for ever since
Don
Higinio's era, the clock in the drawing room has always been three minutes fast.

Jaime Ceballos thinks of the sundial in a corner of the damp patio. It marks a different time, and now moonlight shines upon it. His bedroom, like that of his aunt and uncle, opens upon the patio. He squeezes against the plaster wall. He has left his door open, and he smells the saturated night. A green odor of growing plants rises from the patio. From farther away, but stronger, comes the perfume of fields and forests. He thinks again of the sun-numeraled sundial, and sees it as keeping two times: sun hours that are remembered, moon hours that are lost and that he would like to recover.

Night's velvet music reaches the big bedroom where Asunción and Jorge sleep. It is softened by the thick curtains, by the silk sofa, the piano, the high canopy and the mosquito netting of the cedar bed. Night sighs its flutes in Asunción's ears. She opens her eyes and feels beside her the heavy sleeping body of her husband.

The floor of Rodolfo's room on the roof is of volcanic stone. Night belongs to the ants that file between the legs of the iron bed. Rodolfo knows that they are there and he imagines that he can hear them. He yawns and covers his shoulders with the blanket. Yesterday was hot, evening cooled and freshened the air, now night has become warm again, announcing the coming of dawn.

A mosquito buzzes near Jaime's ear. He slaps at it and rolls over against the wall again. The bed was placed against the wall years ago when he was little, so that he would not fall off, and he used to sleep ringed by chairs and cushions. Now he doesn't need them: he is sixteen. Night's insect song invades his head with sensuality bathed in the scents of fruit and damp earth and warm wind.

In the bedroom on the roof, Rodolfo frees his arms from the sheets and crosses them on his chest. He would like to change his sweaty undershirt, but he is lazy and afraid of catching cold. He cannot sleep. He believes it is because he smells beside him the perfume, more tenacious than forgetfulness, of his wife. He raises his fingers to his nostrils, then to his eyes, and tells himself that he is mistaken. He feels beside his body: there is no one. He cups his hands as if to receive flowing water. Her scent has been with him continuously since the afternoon his son spoke of her, and made his skin remember her.

The master bedroom. A yellow moth flutters and Asunción wakes with her mouth open and her hands pressed to her almost virginal nipples. Very cautiously, for she does not want to make any noise, she opens the mosquito netting and tiptoes to the full-length mirror. There she observes herself in the moonlight, drowsy but erect, with her hair falling to her waist and her cheeks flushed by her hot dreams. She tells herself that she is still young and pretty. She unbuttons her gown and displays the round firm breasts which have hardly been touched by a man. No baby has ever sucked there. She does not know why she crosses her arms inside the gown and swells out her stomach and squeezes it. She turns her back on the mirror and looks at the sleeping body of Jorge Balcárcel. No one hears her soft moan. No one sees the hopeless caresses she gives her breasts and belly. She remembers the boy sleeping in the next room. Suddenly she burns with desire to run and see him.

Gray dawn rises from the stones of the patio. The boy, wet from maturbation, forces his chin down into the mattress and with all his strength closes his painful eyes, squeezes his fists, and repeats again and again:
And lead me not into temptation.
Shame and guilt rise up through him from the soles of his feet. He feels that his body is black sand. He sits, then kneels and spreads his arms cross-like. But the words will not come now, and after a moment his dramatic posture seems ridiculous. He gets up and drags the bed away from the wall out into the middle of the room.

The noise of Jaime's bed moving awakens Uncle Balcárcel with a grunt. The mosquito net lies across his face; he removes it and opens his eyes and looks at sleeping Asunción. What the devil racket is his nephew making at this hour of the morning? He sighs and rubs his unshaven face. He thinks about Jaime's future. Various people have warned him about the peasant schoolmate who has become Jaime's inseparable companion. Boys must be protected against their inexperience, Balcárcel tells himself. Life nowadays is full of dangers. He looks for the copper cuspidor beside the bed to spit out the thick morning phlegm. The boy must be specially safeguarded because he is necessary for tranquility in the home; he is everything that he himself—Balcárcel—had not been able to give Asunción. Now he rubs his hair and feels the roughness of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Yes: the son who because he is not really theirs must be watched over and chained to them more forcefully than if he had sprung from Asunción's barren womb.

But when Balcárcel lets his head fall back against the pillow and disposes himself to sleep placidly again, he does not deceive himself, he freely confesses that the idea of an adolescent, a boy coming to be a man, fills him with disgust. A new sexuality. He cannot support that thought, nor the idea of young love. He is caught suddenly, this most upright man of business, with a series of indecent visions which he wishes and does not wish to disrupt. Then Asunción moves on the bed beside him, opens her eyes and closes her mouth.

“Are you awake?” she says presently.

“It's almost six,” her husband responds, rubbing his palm over his stubbled chin.

The woman sits on the edge of the bed and feels her feet into her red slippers. Blue light begins to sift across the room. She covers herself with a shawl and smells the stuffy odors of the night. She goes out onto the corridor that circles the patio, and descends the stone stairs, breathing in the morning. She raps on the windows of the servants' rooms. Her hands rise and she hastily buttons her gown to the throat.

*   *   *

Aunt and nephew have returned from morning Mass at San Roque. The first half of the pews were almost empty, occupied by five or six of the city's gentry. The pews behind were crowded: old women wrapped in black shawls, blue-clad peasants with dark eyes and crossed arms and bare feet smeared with burned clay.
Doña
Asunción counted her rosary as if the beads were pearls; the old women in the rear pews counted theirs as if weighing grains of corn, as if these prayers were the richest part of their overwhelming poverty.

Now the family are gathered in the shadowy dining room beneath the green lamp. A servant has placed, in the middle of the velvet cloth, a fountain of papayas, lemons, cold bananas and sweet-smelling quinces. Jaime holds a quince near his nose. Uncle Balcárcel arches his eyebrows and compresses his thin lips and squeezes lemon juice over a rose slice of papaya. Rodolfo, napkin tucked into his collar, has just covered his mouth with his hand to spit out seeds. Asunción gestures to Jaime that he should wipe something from his right eye. There are smells of fried sausage and bacon.

“Put down that quince and eat,” Uncle Balcárcel growls. “I observe that this boy is decidedly skinny.”

“He's growing so fast,” the aunt says.

“He ought to exercise. What do you do, sir, in your free time?”

“I read a lot, uncle.”

“Don't talk with your mouth full.” Balcárcel's posture at the table is erect and dignified, as if to contrast with Rodolfo's slumped indolence. The closed fist of his left hand reposes on the tablecloth and now and then he takes his watch from his vest and arches his brows. “Rodolfo, I have no wish to encroach upon your authority. Nevertheless, I am of the opinion that the time has come to speak plainly to Jaime. He is no longer a child, but a young man of sixteen.”

The fat merchant becomes all attention. He stops eating.

To speak plainly,
Jaime thinks. That is exactly what he wants, to be able to speak and understand plainly.

“Life nowadays,” intones Balcárcel, “is replete with dangers. In our youth, Rodolfo, the social atmosphere helped us toward virtue. But today, I am informed, instead of learning discipline, our young people run as free as goats. Nowadays it is held that discipline is wrong, that it is better to give in to one's instincts. No, sir! I say no, sir! Instincts are for brute animals. Men must learn control.”

Balcárcel passes his rigid triumphant gaze around the table. Jaime lowers his head.

“I see that my words affect you strongly, young man,” the uncle smiles. “All the better. Pray tell me, what is the book you are now reading?”

“A novel, sir.”

“A novel. Very good. And what is its title?”

“The Red and the Black.”

“Asunción, will you be so kind as to confirm with Father Lanzagorta that this so-called novel is on the Index? You will then have Jaime hand his copy over to you. Let us proceed. Who is your closest friend?”

“A friend from … from school.”

“His name?”

“Juan Manuel.”

“Juan Manuel what?”

“Juan Manuel Lorenzo.”

“Asunción, do you call to mind any of our friends whose family name is Lorenzo? Neither do I, neither do I. And I shall tell you why: because these Lorenzos are peasants whose son studies here thanks to a scholarship provided by the government.”

“Child, you must be more careful in your associations,” says
Doña
Asunción, resting her hand on Jaime's shoulder. The boy is red faced. He looks for words with which to reply to his uncle. He implores the protective intervention of his father. But Rodolfo sits with his hands on his lap and an expression of respectful attention.

“I have not yet concluded,” the uncle pronounces with a stiff finger. “And now I enter, decidedly, into the area of your responsibility, Rodolfo. Does it seem to you fitting that a youth whose character is just forming should be led among the lowest classes in the city to attend all manner of rowdy fiestas? At the beginning, I tolerated it, for then Jaime was a child. But now that he is sixteen, I find it decidedly unwise. And the fact is not only that you go with him but that you lead him, Rodolfo, exposing him to loose women and every sort of temptation. You have never felt it fit to tell us about these excursions. There must be a very good reason for that. You will pardon my brutality, but have you by some chance also conducted your son to a house of prostitution?”

The aunt's exclamation is cut short by Balcárcel's rhetorical hand. “Frankness is necessary,” he proceeds relentlessly. “Every family must have a head, and I am going to make my authority felt in this one. My first rule shall be that Jaime, like all the young men of our family, must reach marriage pure and chaste and must not know any woman other than the wife God blesses him with. To this end he shall henceforth abandon completely his licentious readings, his degrading friendships, and in one word, his frivolity.”

While Balcárcel speaks, dark shame buries itself deep in Jaime's breast. He is also furious because his father remains mute. The defense that the boy waits for should not be merely a protest, but an active and cutting attack, and should begin with the simple statement: “He is
my
son.” His father says nothing, but merely drops his eyes. Finally Jaime summons up all his strength and says quietly:

“Is that how you speak plainly, uncle? With lies?”

Balcárcel flings his arm out. “Leave this table! To your room, sir! To your room without breakfast, to see if fasting will cure you of your insolence! Though your father may be incapable of disciplining you, I shall still show you that in this house there is authority and there will be respect for one's elders!”

The uncle wipes his fingers with his napkin. Jaime rises, begging his father and his aunt for help. They both look down. The boy walks out, to the narrow white room where the servant has already pushed his bed back against the wall.

Smells of abundant provincial breakfast. They eat eggs and sausage in silence. Finally Asunción tries to smile:

“Our cousins are trying to steal the cook. I want you to speak with them, for without Felisa I can't get along.”

Balcárcel nods. For the last time he consults his watch, and rises and leaves the dining room. The brother and sister go on eating.

“Tomorrow is the anniversary of Papá's death,” Rodolfo says presently.

“Yes. The
Te Deum
will be at ten. Father Lanzagorta.”

“What your husband said … that Jaime and I, that…”

“I know.”

“We used to have such good times together. Now we never have anything to say to each other. We just walk, that's all. We don't talk.”

“Yes.”

“Ever since … Asunción, how did he find out? He asked me about Adelina. He told me that I abandoned her.”

“You promised never to mention her, never!”

“I didn't mention her. I don't know how he knew. But it's your fault. Yes. Why
did
I abandon her? Because of you.”

Birds carol outside, building new nests in the thick spring foliage of the ash trees. Old women creep out of the church of San Roque. Vendors of fruits and candies sing their wares. A cock silently struts along the wall, lording it over his meek hens. His crest is as high and stiff as a bullfighter's flying cloak.