The Stories of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende Read Free Book Online Page A

food to her husband. She set the tray on the floor and for the first time in more than forty years knocked on his door.
    â€œHow many times have I told you not to bother me,” the judge protested in a reedy voice.
    â€œI’m sorry, dear, I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to die.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œOn Friday.”
    â€œVery well.” The door did not open.
    Clarisa called her sons to tell them about her imminent death, and then took to her bed. Her bedroom was a large dark room with pieces of heavy carved mahogany furniture that would never become antiques because somewhere along the way they had broken down. On her dresser sat a crystal urn containing an astoundingly realistic wax Baby Jesus, rosy as an infant fresh from its bath.
    â€œI’d like for you to have the Baby, Eva. I know you’ll take care of Him.”
    â€œYou’re not going to die. Don’t frighten me this way.”
    â€œYou need to keep Him in the shade, if the sun strikes Him, He’ll melt. He’s lasted almost a century, and will last another if you protect Him from the heat.”
    I combed her meringue hair high on her head, tied it with a ribbon, and then sat down to accompany her through this crisis, not knowing exactly what it was. The moment was totally free of sentimentality, as if in fact she was not dying but suffering from a slight cold.
    â€œWe should call a priest now, don’t you think, child?”
    â€œBut Clarisa, what sins can you have?”
    â€œLife is long, and there’s more than enough time for evil, God willing.”
    â€œBut you’ll go straight to heaven—that is, if heaven exists.”
    â€œOf course it exists, but it’s not certain they’ll let me in. They’re very strict there,” she murmured. And after a long pause, she added, “When I think over my trespasses, there was one that was very grave . . .”
    I shivered, terrified that this old woman with the aureole of a saint was going to tell me that she had intentionally dispatched her retarded children to facilitate divine justice, or that she did not believe in God and had devoted herself to doing good in this world only because the scales had assigned her the role of compensating for the evil of others, an evil that was unimportant anyway since everything is part of the same infinite process. But Clarisa confessed nothing so dramatic to me. She turned toward the window and told me, blushing, that she had not fulfilled her conjugal duties.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked.
    â€œWell, I mean I did not satisfy my husband’s carnal desires, you understand?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIf you refuse your husband your body, and he falls into the temptation of seeking solace with another woman, you bear that moral responsibility.”
    â€œI see. The judge fornicates, and the sin is yours.”
    â€œNo, no. I think it would be both our sins. . . . I would have to look it up.”
    â€œAnd the husband has the same obligation to his wife?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI mean, if you had had another man, would your husband share the blame?”
    â€œWherever did you get an idea like that, child!” she stared at me in disbelief.
    â€œDon’t worry, because if your worst sin was that you slighted the judge, I’m sure God will see the joke.”
    â€œI don’t think God is very amused by such things.”
    â€œBut Clarisa, to doubt divine perfection would be a great sin.”
    She seemed in such good health that I could not imagine her dying, but I supposed that, unlike us simple mortals, saints have the power to die unafraid and in full control of their faculties. Her reputation was so solid that many claimed to have seen a circle of light around her head and to have heard celestial music in her presence, and so I was not surprised when I undressed her to put on her nightgown to find two inflamed bumps on