Last Stories and Other Stories (9780698135482) (44 page)

Although he said nothing, Ricardo felt jealous. Why wouldn't she consummate their marriage? For some days afterward they met in the “castle,” until the authorities had removed his rival's corpse. He began to understand that were she to spare him, she must feed on others in the meantime. They altered the time of their rendezvous to dusk, because it was easier for her to lure in others by day. Thinking about her, he pined away every afternoon and sometimes began weeping; then as evening drew near he would rise up out of bed and look happier. His aunt began to wonder whether he might be bewitched, perhaps even by Adela, who must have turned away the
bruja
's spell, but since he was not wasting away, and since, moreover, he had become kinder and more patient, even listening to her long stories about his mother, Aunt Bertha continued to hope that all was well. In truth he found it heavenly to give himself to La Llorona. Unlike Adela, she never turned away from his need. The next time that sweet fever redescended from the ceiling of his aunt's house to whistle in his ears like a harbor wind, warming his forehead and the backs of his hands, he found himself thinking: I'm doing it all for her, so that I can be her and she can be me; I'll heal her and make her happy.— But what this meant was obscure even to him, and he sank deeper and
deeper into his bed, listening to a single mosquito. His aunt beseeched him to eat more; he was studying too hard, she said, reminding him, as she frequently did, of the ominous career of his great-uncle's great-great-grandfather Don Roberto, who while preparing his illustrated dictionary of
trabucos,
percussion guns, blunderbusses and other weapons of the conquistadors had strained his mind so perilously in the mildewed reading room of those selfsame Archives of the Ayuntamiento de Veracruz (in particular, he grew fixated on the question of why some words remain untouched, others become outlined in dark brown, and the rest vanish away) that he commenced to be haunted by a gaunt brown manuscript demon whom only the thrice-uttered name of Saint Santiago would keep at bay, until finally not even this availed, and the poor man was found dead one night with his face resembling a royal seal poxed by worms; but at this juncture, kissing her sweet old hand and thanking her for her consideration, her nephew now hurried out to drink an unaccustomed cocktail at the
zócalo,
watching the double rows of dark green soldiers flipping their scarlet drums, clashing their drumsticks and blowing their trumpets, while passersby lifted up their children; then came the Mexican national anthem as a half-dozen of Veracruz's bravest carried the long limp flag to bed, while Ricardo sat playing with the engagement ring in his pocket.

La Llorona stood with her hands on her hips, turning her pale face toward him, while in a puddle of dark fluid her latest lover lay glossy and swollen like a roasted chicken, ants all over him, a great leaf on his face, his knees drawn partway in, his fists closed like a baby's. She began to laugh.— And seeing this, you hope to marry me?

Come what may, he replied.

Drawing near, she breathed her cool foul breath on his face, and he bowed his head.

She inquired: Do you imagine that you don't deserve to live?

After you devour me, will you remember me?

Not at all. Neither will you.

Do you remember anything at all?

I was born at Painalla. Before that I blossomed and fell, blossomed and fell.

Please, Malintzin,
*
let's make a child!

No one ever asked me for a baby before!

Will you?

Why don't you ask a woman?

What are you?

A goddess.

I did, but she—

Very well, then we'll marry.

That very day she came home with him, to be introduced to Aunt Bertha, who thought her marvelous, although it did seem peculiar that she declined to live with them. Ricardo and La Llorona had agreed to keep their marriage secret, to avoid explanations. Of course Aunt Bertha noticed that she was wearing a ring, and the instant that the girl's belly began to swell, that too she perceived, with the sort of hungry titillation which so often breaks out like mold in such circumstances. The next time the ghost lady visited them, Aunt Bertha said: I may be mistaken, my dear, but is there something you haven't told me yet?

Oh, you're not at all mistaken about that, replied La Llorona, who was standing at the kitchen counter, grinding corn in a lava metate.

Well, then, darling, if it's not too delicate a subject, have you and my nephew made any plans?

That depends on him.

If you'd like, I can speak with him, because he shouldn't leave you unprovided for.

Don't trouble yourself, aunt. I've provided for myself for a good while now.

But, well, excuse me for keeping on with this—

You see, said the lovely woman (whose greatest drawback, in Aunt Bertha's opinion, was the fact that she sometimes smelled a trifle unclean), when we discuss this subject, your nephew always says that he's not sure how long he'll live.

My God, Malintzin! What do you mean? And if Ricardo's unwell, which is not news to me, wouldn't that be all the more reason to unite yourselves, in case there are any children?

But just then Ricardo emerged from his room, looking more joyous than ever. He had lately been making great progress with his dissertation, which seemed to be more brilliant and clear than before, as if someone had been rewriting the manuscript for him. Later that very night, after he posted a letter to Adela, asking her forgiveness and wishing her all good things, he was sitting in the back yard waiting for La Llorona to descend into him when he first thought to hear his pen scratching against the paper; and peering through the keyhole into his room, he seemed to see many green leaves blossoming and he smelled a perfume as of vanilla and copal. Of late he had showed still more gratitude to his aunt. And the more he deferred to and relied on her, the more his hard heart melted away. Everyone exclaimed over him, especially the unmarried girls at church. As for La Llorona, she did not seem to be a bit jealous.

On the following night the young couple strolled hand in hand all the way to the lower reaches of the white-limed palms in the
zócalo,
where children played hide and seek around the wide-bellied plinth, booths of cheap necklaces shone as if they were precious, an angry boy kicked a soccer ball all by himself, and a man in a red shirt and cap slowly swept old paper cups and tortilla scraps into his dustpan.

Now you must decide, said La Llorona. You can raise our child alone, or I can take him away, or I can kill you.

Will you come home tonight?

No, darling, I'm hungry.

He went home and considered what to do. His aunt pinched him laughingly and said: Another quarrel? You're the man. Just force her to live with you. It's high time for the priest!

He said: Aunt, should a baby stay with his mother or his father?

Well, both, of course, but if it must be one, then the mother.

Thank you, he said. That's right, of course.

So La Llorona kept little Manuel, who was quite fetching except for the fact that his face resembled a death's-head. The loving couple must now go their separate ways, unless Ricardo were to be devoured. And he wanted to be, but as to that, La Llorona told him: No, I won't eat you,
because you won't surrender yourself to women, and, besides, you're the father of my child.

In the third room of the old house on Avenida Nicolás Bravo, behind the sofa's burned skeleton, La Llorona stood beside him, gesturing with all her delicate fingers, the tropical light of Veracruz gilding her naked shoulders and her eye-whites brighter than sea-waves, her hair lusher than sea-foam as she turned toward him, gesturing at the light of the farthest room without looking at it, and he suddenly realized with a thrill of joy that he was naked, ready to give himself to be devoured; he was taller yet somehow smaller, open to her without shame and therefore without hatred, not ever again; how grateful he felt to belong to her! Manuel sat on the toilet, playing with a man's thighbone, while La Llorona disrobed and opened her legs to Ricardo for the last time. How he loved her! He would have done anything to keep her, anything!

I'll walk you out, she said, kissing his forehead, which burned and stung with fever. Manuel sat alone watching them as they dressed. He was seven days old.

In the harbor of battleships and other steel fishes of the Mexican Armada, a pelican nearly as tall as Aunt Bertha swallowed fish and worked the red-orange leather hinge below its throat. Ricardo could not bear to watch the shimmering and waving of the water very long; it made him queasy. His fever was a nice tickly feeling, as if his thighs were being massaged by a thousand cockroaches. Of course he felt on the verge of tears.

Ricardo, listen to me, said La Llorona. Adela left you because she would not love you. I'm leaving you to keep you alive.

Please eat me; please drink my blood; I don't want to start over anymore—

Do you love me?

I—

You're just like me, silly! You'd love anybody!

When I die will I see you again?

The dead see nothing.

Are you dead?

No, darling. Not me. That's why you'll never see me again.

Turning wide-eyed toward him, with the sun on her gorgeous
shoulders, she gave him a little golden turtle with three golden bells hanging from it, to help him when he married, and for his aunt a lovely golden bracelet studded and beaded, sun-rayed and devil-pricked, and for his as yet unknown wife a necklace of little golden eagle-horsemen who extruded their forked golden tongues, and a pendant of three golden bells with feathers and jade beads.

She gave him a magic leaf and told him to make a tea out of it and drink it. Then life would go differently for him. His emotions writhed like the dying fingers of a severed hand. She kissed him coolly on the cheek; then they parted. In a way he was relieved; he no longer had to fear that in his company she might slay some decent person.

Then, blindly solitary, he crept back to Aunt Bertha's, and when his hostess saw his face she knew at once what had happened (more or less). Pale and despondent, the many-times rejected young man lay down, struggling to hate La Llorona, but no hatred came to him. Next he tried to imagine how he must live, since he could not die. If the purpose of life was indeed erotic or romantic satisfaction, perhaps his aunt could save him; didn't she know any number of likely young girls? But why shouldn't he rush back to Avenida Nicolás Bravo, for instance tonight, and open his veins before La Llorona? So he set out. But when his former sweetheart appeared before him, she was nothing if not furious and monstrous.— Where had she come from, by the way? Was it from under the rotten floor? Where did she actually keep herself? This he had never asked himself, or her. Well, too late now! Warning him in icy tones not to try her further (behind her he spied gruesome Manuel, already half-grown, with blood running down his lips), she then approached him, breathed on him with her foul breath until he trembled, slapped his face once, then closed the interview as follows: If I choose, I can infect any part of you with necrosis, and even so you will not die without my permission. How would you like to drag out the years half-rotten? Now go, Ricardo, and never come back.

I never trusted her, said his Aunt Bertha. What you need is a girl whose purpose in life is love. There's someone I'm already thinking of . . . But tell me this. What's become of your child?

She took him away—

Horrible, horrible woman! Ricardo, you need to relax. Drink with me.

So he did. His fever still troubled him, and a foul smell haunted his nostrils.

Aunt, this bracelet is for you.

From
her
? It's not real, is it? Oh, Ricardo, close the shutters! How beautiful!

Returning to the municipal archives, he sought even now to cling to her by means of discovering facts.
For the said Viceroy incited the orders in this writing and . . . in his mouth . . .
and then wormtracks. At once he seemed to see his hateful son.
By the hand of a man who newly and with certain foundation . . . burned both corpses, with many prayers, after which the said Lord Bishop . . . jade, which to these idolators is considered more precious than gold. The aforesaid
mestiza,
who is said to be a familiar of the Devil . . . exorcism, all of which was reported to His Majesty, may God guard him many years and continue to concede to him such a title,
and then tiny waterstained islands of ink.
We simply sign this in our city of Veracruz, Ciudad de la Vera Cruz y Puerto,
some signatures resembling geometrical shapes, others like string figures, crossing lines and squares.
Ecstasy on his face, although his belly had been utterly devoured.
The ledger's back flap fell open like the wing of a dead bird, folded inward and tied shut with crosses of rawhide. Within he found a tiny oval of apple-green jade, and on the back of a yellow sheet reading
Certificación que acredita
a notice in a feminine hand:
Ricardo, since you persist in disobeying me, I now afflict you with gangrene.

After the amputation of his left foot, Ricardo found time to become acquainted with all his aunt's neighbors. Across the street there lived an old widower who was very lonely. He touched the old man with the magic leaf, and at once the man rose up full of hope again that he might find some woman who would love him, and although he had not left his bed for many years he managed to get downstairs and even came into the street; stretched out his hand to a passing housewife, then fell down dead with a smile on his face. So this was a good thing that Ricardo had done.

His fever now seemed to become an ovoid jade bead, polished very smooth and inserted into his skull, where it ached deliciously and
hilariously. He longed to die; oh, how he loved La Llorona! He prepared to become spiteful and hateful as usual. What an evil example woman sets! Consider for instance the way that a woman casts her smile toward a man, even when she keeps her knees together . . .