The House of Impossible Loves by Cristina López Barrio Read Free Book Online Page B

Clara stopped receiving clients and sent her mother to recruit a replacement as she resigned herself to wait for the child’s birth. She moved her bed under the window, framing it between the iron bars. There she sat with her swollen belly, staring out at the cobblestone drive. She still dreamed of the Andalusian, striding up the drive, singing a folk song to announce his arrival, followed by a
saeta
to beg her forgiveness. That drive was the first thing Clara saw when she woke, the last thing before she slept, and the vision continued in her dreams. Her hair still smelled of flowers in the morning, just as when she first brought the landowner to see the estate, only the daisies now sprouted in the earth instead of her chestnut strands.
    One morning, when she was seven months pregnant, her vision still fogged by her dreams, Clara thought she saw a man walking toward the house. She rubbed her eyes, not wanting sleep to come between her and her desires: he was back in town, earlier than promised. But this man was not wearing riding breeches and boots; there was no cape or oiled hair. His pants were black and coarse, his heavy boots calf-length, his coat two sizes too big, and peering out above the collar, a snow-white band bearing witness to a dedication to Christ: it was Padre Imperio. Clara burst into tears. He knocked and Clara’s mother answered. For a moment, the priest wondered whether the devil hid in the blind eye of that woman still reeking of witchcraft, and he crossed himself in his thoughts.
    “What a surprise. Come in.”
    “I’m fine right here.” Padre Imperio did not intend to ever cross that threshold.
    “Well then, tell me why you’ve come.”
    “I’d like to see Clara.”
    “She’s resting, Father. She’s pregnant and needs all the rest she can get.”
    “So I heard. I can wait. Tell her I have something for her.”
    “But she’s not even awake and might not be up for hours! Pregnant women sleep late.”
    “I’m up, Madre. Go inside. I’ll take care of him.” Clara Laguna appeared in the clay-tiled entryway. Her eyes were red from crying, her hair tousled, her pregnant belly bulging under a thin muslin
Il Seraglio
dressing gown.
    The Laguna witch went into the kitchen for breakfast.
    “Tell me what you want, then leave. I don’t want any deals with God until my death.”
    The priest stared straight down at a violet-covered Bible in his hands.
    “I came to bring you this.” He handed Clara the Bible. “You shouldn’t wait that long.”
    “Does it look like I can read, Padre? Men and their obsession with educated women! Do you think he’d have abandoned me if I’d been able to read this book?”
    “If you can’t read it, I’ll read it to you. I’ll be back this same time tomorrow morning. I’ll wait for you in the garden. But this time, be dressed.” He replied with the determination that had kept him alive in the jungle for over a month.
    Padre Imperio’s eyes, those dark eyes in which Clara found solace one winter night, bore into her own. She said nothing but felt spring slipping in through the door with a breeze of tender shoots.
    Clara spent the afternoon wandering among the tomatoes, lettuce, and squash in the garden, amid the fruit trees, hydrangea, and morning glories, their flowers intensifying the ache in her heart. It longed for the bare rigidity of winter. But her treasonous baby stirred in a belly nourished by spring. Nature’s creaky buzz reached deep inside Clara, the herbage exploding on what not long ago were barren branches rattling in the wind. But the most painful of all, what she could never forgive the fertile ground around Scarlet Manor, was the effervescence of multi-hued buds that filled the rose garden. Clara had not set foot on those paths where she’d once loved, where she had been happy, where a yellow rose—no less treasonous—would fade just like her, where its blue, white, and red companions had grown so big their petals were like tongues