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

her shoulders, as if her pair of great angel wings were about to erupt.
    The rumor of Clarisa’s coming death spread rapidly. Her children and I had to marshal an unending line of people who came to seek her intervention in heaven for various favors, or simply to say goodbye. Many expected that at the last moment a significant miracle would occur, such as, the odor of rancid bottles that pervaded the house would be transformed into the perfume of camelias, or beams of consolation would shine forth from her body. Among the visitors was her friend the robber, who had not mended his ways but instead become a true professional. He sat beside the dying woman’s bed and recounted his escapades without a hint of repentance.
    â€œThings are going really well. I rob only upper-class homes now. I steal from the rich, and that’s no sin. I’ve never had to use violence, and I work clean, like a true gentleman,” he boasted.
    â€œI will have to pray a long time for you, my son.”
    â€œPray on, Grandmother. It won’t do me any harm.”
    La Señora came, too, distressed to be saying goodbye to her beloved friend, and bringing a flower crown and almond-paste sweets as her contribution to the death vigil. My former patrona did not know me, but I had no trouble recognizing her despite her girth, her wig, and the outrageous plastic shoes printed with gold stars. To offset the thief, she came to tell Clarisa that her advice had fallen upon fertile ground, and that she was now a respectable Christian.
    â€œTell Saint Peter that, so he’ll take my name from his black book” was her plea.
    â€œWhat a terrible disappointment for all these good people if instead of going to heaven I end up in the cauldrons of hell,” Clarisa said after I was finally able to close the door and let her rest for a while.
    â€œIf that happens, no one down here is going to know, Clarisa.”
    â€œThank heavens for that!”
    From early dawn on Friday a crowd gathered outside in the street, and only her two sons’ vigilance prevented the faithful from carrying off relics, from strips of paper off the walls to articles of the saint’s meager wardrobe. Clarisa was failing before our eyes and, for the first time, she showed signs of taking her own death seriously. About ten that morning, a blue automobile with Congressional plates stopped before the house. The chauffeur helped an old man climb from the back seat; the crowds recognized him immediately. It was don Diego Cienfuegos, whom decades of public service had made a national hero. Clarisa’s sons came out to greet him, and accompanied him in his laborious ascent to the second floor. When Clarisa saw him in the doorway, she became quite animated; the color returned to her cheeks and the shine to her eyes.
    â€œPlease, clear everyone out of the room and leave us alone,” she whispered in my ear.
    Twenty minutes later the door opened and don Diego Cienfuegos departed, feet dragging, eyes teary, bowed and crippled, but smiling. Clarisa’s sons, who were waiting in the hall, again took his arms to steady him, and seeing them there together I confirmed something that had crossed my mind before. The three men had the same bearing, the same profile, the same deliberate assurance, the same wise eyes and firm hands.
    I waited until they were downstairs, and went back to my friend’s room. As I arranged her pillows, I saw that she, like her visitor, was weeping with a certain rejoicing.
    â€œ Don Diego was your grave sin, wasn’t he?” I murmured.
    â€œThat wasn’t a sin, child, just a little boost to help God balance the scales of destiny. You see how well it worked out, because my two weak children had two strong brothers to look after them.”
    Clarisa died that night, without suffering. Cancer, the doctor diagnosed, when he saw the buds of her wings; saintliness, proclaimed the throngs bearing candles and flowers;