Evil Eye by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page A

him with the heavy cassoulet. It was an elaborate Spanish meal comprised of a variety of ingredients—duck, sausage, pork, pancetta, ham hocks, beans—and provided a subject for much conversation, drawing in even Hortensa. Brought to the table at the same time was a large wooden bowl filled by Mariana with salad greens, cherry tomatoes, fresh basil and parsley, and chopped figs, tossed with Austin’s olive-oil-and-vinegar dressing—a beautiful salad. And there was yet another bottle of red wine to be opened and poured, with ceremony; so Austin was preoccupied, and Mariana began to feel less acutely self-conscious.
    It was an exquisite dinner. Austin prided himself on his cooking, and took as much pains with food and drink as he did with his professional work.
    Yet the cassoulet was very rich. After two small forkfuls, ­Mariana began to lose her appetite.
    Ines, too, ate sparingly. But the vivacious little woman was practiced at pushing food around her plate, flattering her host into thinking that she was busily consuming his food and relishing it.
    And Hortensa ate heartily—seconds, thirds heaped by Austin onto her plate.
    During the meal, Ines chattered brightly about California—“Only just a memory to me now. But—a memory!”
    Mariana saw Austin flinch at this seemingly casual remark.
    â€œThose trees! Eucalyptus are very dangerous in a windstorm, Mariana—yet more, in a firestorm. I’ve seen them burst into flame—it’s astonishing, like a—holocaust. You can never look at a eucalyptus tree in quite the same way again.”
    Mariana smiled, perplexed. Had Ines—and Austin—lived through a firestorm? Or was Ines simply talking, aimlessly?
    â€œAustin sneers at superstition. But there is something to it—the logic of chance—things happen to us for a reason. In the old folk tales there are no natural deaths—spirits cause them. If you are stricken, fall down, and die, it’s the place where you die that is responsible—an evil spirit must dwell there. My grandmother told me about a woman who was careless in a cemetery, and dropped an urn, and an evil spirit leapt out of it and into her . . .”
    Hortensa laughed, suddenly. Ines turned to her with a look of startled scorn.
    â€œ Sí, you young people will laugh. Until it happens to you .”
    Conversation now reverted to less sensitive subjects—Berkeley and San Francisco restaurants, tapas bars, Spanish cuisine vs. other cuisines. Ines led, and Austin followed, though with less enthusiasm than he usually showed, talking of food; for food was one of Austin’s passions, perhaps in this phase of his life a primary passion, along with wine. Mariana saw that Austin still did not look directly at Ines, if he could avoid it; as if he simply couldn’t bear to see her—his once-gorgeous young wife now decades older and disfigured.
    Politely Austin turned his attention to Hortensa, asking her questions about her “musical career”—until at last Hortensa said, sharply, with no effort at being civil to her host, “I don’t have a musical career. I try to get gigs, and I try very hard. And mostly I fail. And in the meantime I teach—children. When I can get them. I’ve never had a career, I’ve barely had a life. I am a worker in music, a member of the proletariat. ”
    Before Austin could reply, Ines intervened: “Hortensa exaggerates of course! But it is true, for all her talent she has had ill luck. Even as she scorns superstition she has had ill luck not deserved by one who has worked so hard, with so much heart—but that will change one day soon, I am confident.”
    Again Hortensa laughed. She made no effort to defend herself against her aunt’s brittle optimism but scooped more cassoulet onto her plate.
    Mariana felt a pang of sympathy for the young woman. It’s because she is not beautiful. She is a homely