Olvido ran home to Scarlet Manor through the pine forest. The leather strap had come undone on one side of her hat. The moment she saw her mother leaning against the iron gate, waiting for her under the funeral bow, she thought of the boy’s gray eyes, big and brave, and the gloveless hand that offered help. Olvido cried not a single tear as Manuela caned her: the only thing that could hurt her now was if she never saw Esteban again.
The young schoolteacher from the city did not expect to see Olvido again, but she was wrong. Olvido continued to come to class, wearing her hat. Sitting at a desk in the back row, she covered sheets of paper with simple strokes at first, progressing to meaningless primer phrases such as “mi mamá me mima.” In time, the taunts no longer bothered her. Whenever they were hurled, she felt Esteban’s stormy eyes, his soldier’s haircut, and his chin held high, defying them all.
“I told you chickens to leave her alone!”
“You leave me alone! I can defend myself!”
The boy’s gaze would grow even stormier, and he would purse his lips, but he never gave up.
One morning in May of 1937, Esteban’s father was found dead on the road that led through the pine forest to town. He was on his way home for a few days’ leave, but someone ended that, blasting his torso open with a shotgun. For a time it was rumored that the other side not only killed him but ripped out his intestines as well.
Her face flushed, the young schoolteacher from the city announced the news in class.
“Our dear Esteban will not be in class today. Let’s say a prayer for his entrails,” she said, coughing, “for his father, I mean, who went to heaven in a warrior’s clothes.”
It took Olvido Laguna, who had just turned twelve, a moment to process what happened. Then, to the surprise of her teacher and classmates, she stood and ran from the room.
Olvido headed through the square and up the hill to the cemetery. She found a place to hide among headstones and crosses, not far from where the schoolmaster’s coffin was being lowered into his grave. The funeral cortège was a cluster of black surrounding the hole. The widow leaned against her daughter, the daughter supporting her mother’s pain, and squeezed her son’s arm with her hand, disfigured by years of mending socks. Behind the family were several townspeople. At the head of them all, Padre Imperio splashed holy water and delivered his words in Latin over the grave. The coffin bumped the ground as it hit bottom, and the group began to splinter. The only ones who stood firm were the widow and her daughter; even Esteban walked away. He would enlist, disguise his thirteen years in the vengeance of a sixteen-year-old boy, and kill the traitors who murdered his father. Olvido followed. Crickets sang as the sun burned the ground, which smelled like a mash of poppies and daisies.
“Hi.” Olvido stepped out from behind a cross.
Esteban’s heart fell onto the headstone of Paquita Muñoz, dead and buried at the age of six.
“They told us at school that your father died.”
“They killed him, the traitors. It’s different. What do you want?” Esteban was wearing a brown corduroy suit with a black armband.
“I ran here because I’ve never seen a funeral.”
“Liar.” The boy stuffed a hand into his pocket.
Olvido averted her eyes from his and stared into the furrow in his chin.
“And I came to comfort you because I thought you’d be sad.”
“I’ll be a soldier soon, and soldiers can’t be sad. They have to be brave to go fight on the front.”
“I think you must be a little sad.”
“Even if I were, I wouldn’t want your help. You never let me defend you.”
“I can go if you like.”
“No. The cemetery is no place for a girl. I’ll walk you home. Soldiers have a duty to watch over women.”
The breeze from the pine forest carried the smell of rockrose, thyme, and ferns up to the treetops. Esteban walked with his head down, while Olvido chattered about the honeysuckle that grew in her yard and the black horse that had the longest, curliest mane in the world. Esteban would glance at her every now and then, and every time he caught her staring at his hands. Worried, he glanced down to see whether his nails might be dirty. Suddenly, Olvido tripped over a rock and bumped into his arm.
“Sorry,” she apologized, brushing her bangs from her eyes.
“That’s all right. Do you want me to take your hand?”
Olvido had imagined his touch over and over again. She had even dreamed of it. Skin without white cotton gloves.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Gosh, you’re stubborn.”
“So are you!”
“I kept insisting because you did. A soldier shouldn’t let a woman be insulted. Besides, you’re not like the other girls.”
“Look, there’s my house.”
The roof of Scarlet Manor filled the horizon. They walked in silence until they could see the front of the house, peeking out through the rain and the yard’s fertile mist. A shiver ran through Esteban’s body. His parents had told him about that hellish house, that wicked women lived there. He remembered how he and his friends would play a game that made the hair on their arms stand on end: “You’re a chicken if you don’t touch the gate at Scarlet Manor. Coward! Chicken!”
His mouth dry, Esteban would run to touch the iron bars and race back to his friends in the forest to celebrate his bravery.
“You’d better go. My mother will be angry if she sees you. She’s got quite a temper.”
The aroma of the dish Manuela had simmering on the stove floated out through a window.
“It smells delicious.”
“My mother’s making lunch. She’s an excellent cook. If she didn’t get so angry, I’d ask if you could stay for lunch.”
“I have to go home to my mother and sister, but thanks.”
A magpie flew overhead, cawing, followed by a hollow voice: “Olvido Laguna.” Manuela appeared, jailed behind the iron gate. “What are you doing with this boy?”
“Madre, I didn’t hear you. He, he . . .” Olvido stammered. “He’s the schoolmaster’s son. His name is Esteban. I went to his father’s funeral and—”
“So you’re the schoolmaster’s son,” Manuela interrupted, scrutinizing the boy. “Yes, indeed. You have his gray eyes.”
“I was just leaving . . . My mother’s waiting for me at home. See you tomorrow, Olvido,” Esteban said, wringing his hands.
“Hold on, boy. Don’t be in such a hurry. Would you like to come in for a minute and taste what I’m cooking?” Manuela smiled. “It’s a very special dish.”
“Thank you, but they’re expecting me at home.” Esteban’s voice shook.
“Olvido, tell your little friend not to be rude and accept my invitation.” Manuela’s dark eyes narrowed.
“Please come in, Esteban. My mother’s cooking is delicious; you’ll see.”
White cotton gloves wrapped around iron bars and pulled the gate open.
“I’ll just have a little taste and then go home.”
Esteban walked up the daisy-strewn cobblestone drive. He did not dare look around; it was as if the hydrangea and morning glories were stalking him, as if they wanted to sink their teeth into him, like prey. He followed Olvido and her mother into the clay-tiled entryway that smelled of herbs and garlic.
The kitchen was huge. In the middle was a wide table where Manuela Laguna eviscerated chickens by the light of the window. Up against the walls were cupboards, the dishes covered with blue checked cloths. On top were straw baskets filled with fruit and vegetables. Pots and pans, ropes of garlic and onions hung from the ceiling.
“Come over to the stove, boy. It smells good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, señora.” Esteban felt dizzy.
Manuela picked up a spoon and stirred the dish with delight.
“It’s tripe with herbs and garlic. Be a good boy and try some.” She scooped up a piece of meat, held it steaming in the spoon. She blew on it several times, offering it to Esteban with a smile. The boy looked at Olvido as he took a bite and slowly chewed. It was hot.
“Could I have another taste?”
“Of course, boy! Eat, eat till you’re full,” Manuela replied, handing him the spoon.
Esteban gulped down several pieces of meat.
“He’s hungrier than a rat,” Manuela murmured.
Olvido and her mother listened as the boy slurped up some sauce.
“Your daughter’s right: you’re an excellent cook,” Esteban said with his mouth full. “But I better go. My mother will be worried.”
“Listen carefully to what I’m about to say, boy. Tell your mother you’ve been at Scarlet Manor, and tell her what you ate. Oh, and don’t even think about coming back. I don’t want to see you near my daughter ever again!” Manuela’s nose ended in a sharp point. “Now go before I gut you like a rooster!”
“Madre!”
Esteban stood staring at Manuela’s white cotton gloves before racing from the kitchen without saying goodbye. He crossed the parlor, ran down the hall, into the clay-tiled entryway, and out into the yard. From deep inside he could hear the aromatic cadence of his father’s voice repeating: “Go, son! Go and never come back! Run, run . . .” Esteban pulled open the iron gate and fled into the pine forest.
E
STEBAN LIVED IN
a stone house with black balconies on a narrow street near the school.
“I’m not hungry. I have a headache,” he told his mother and sister, waiting for him in the dining room before a soup tureen.
Esteban locked himself in his room, the scent of herbs and garlic trailing behind him. He slept or tried to sleep the rest of the day, twisting in the sheets as he thought of Olvido’s eyes. He did not get up for dinner and spent the night sweating through nightmares of Manuela Laguna, until dawn broke into a purple blanket of wool.
A shepherd had already seen this in a foul premonition: just after noon, a bomb exploded inside the school. A few seconds earlier what sounded like the buzzing of a giant gadfly was heard in the streets. Up above the townspeople’s gaping mouths came a low-flying silver plane. Several peasant women, who saw it first in their fields, confused it with those silver coffee sets sent by relatives, made of that precious metal the rich women had and that they coveted so, but it passed them by, continuing on to the town square. Women gathered around the fountain commented with trepidation on where that blindingly polished plane might have come from and how striking the pilot looked—this one was wearing a blood-red scarf, hair blowing in the wind, head tilted to one side, glasses shattered.
As the plane passed over the square, it lost a bomb attached to one side. A roar splintered the air and the school disappeared. The plane continued on its ghostly trajectory until it crashed into the horizon, its flames creating the most beautiful, fleeting sunset anyone had ever seen.
The plane itself was swallowed by the hills, but for a long while after, the school’s ruins lay scattered about the town. Pieces of its vine-covered roof, cat feces, and mildewed walls stuck in the women’s brooms, and they grew afraid to sweep with these constant reminders of death. One hot morning on his way to offer a parishioner his last rites, Padre Imperio felt thirsty and drank from the fountain in the square. Suddenly tormented by the purest terrors of his youth, he raced to the church and climbed into the pulpit that evening to announce that they were under surveillance by the devil, his bloody eye spying on the town from the fountain basin. Caught up by Padre Imperio’s novena prayers, the town pharmacist rescued what scientific study determined to be a war trophy worthy of the highest honors: it was, without a doubt, the young schoolteacher’s eye, with its bright, brown pupil. The woman had exploded along with the school, and her body rained down on the town like biblical hail.
“Thank God that plane dropped its bomb after midday when school was out,” Padre Imperio declared. “Death is wise and in its wisdom decides when to attack.”
Yet nothing could erase the smell of the bomb from that place. The townspeople did not want to rebuild on that piece of land. For years parents and grandparents took their young children and grandchildren there, to learn to recognize the smell of war.
Olvido Laguna was walking through the forest to Scarlet Manor when the bomb hit. She felt the pine tops and the branches of the beech trees shake. Throwing herself to the ground, she waited for war to come and kill her. But war was slow; it took its time. Bored, she stared at a pinecone resting on a bed of yellow needles. Niches without pine nuts, like a cemetery without any dead. Then Olvido thought she heard her name, off in the distance. She was afraid someone had ratted her out and war was coming to kill her, repeating her name with its long rifle larynx. “Olvido, Olvido.” Her name drew closer, faster. She wondered whether the bullets would hurt when they entered her body, whether war would rip out her guts, like it did Esteban’s father. She thought of the chickens her mother plucked and eviscerated, the soft whiff that lingered in kitchen corners, the color of blood on the table and floor tiles; she thought of Manuela gripping the knife and plunging it into the bird’s flesh. Olvido retched, and her name fell behind her. “Olvido.” She felt a hand through her blouse and knew that touch belonged not to war but to the gray-eyed boy. Drops of blood fell onto the pinecone.
“A bomb fell off a plane and blew up the school,” Esteban said, reaching down to help Olvido stand. “The teacher was inside and exploded, too.”
Olvido wanted to hold him, to plaster her life to his dirty shirt.
“I came to make sure you were all right.”
“Your ear is bleeding.”
“Oh, that.” The boy raised a hand to his right ear. “Don’t worry, it happens to soldiers when a bomb goes off nearby. My father told me in a letter, hoping it would stop me from enlisting. The only trouble is I’m a bit deaf right now, but I should be fine soon.”
“Let me help you,” Olvido said, pulling a handkerchief from her skirt pocket.
“Oh, okay. But just for a minute.”
The breeze was heavy with human laments and the smell of war, but for Esteban, inhaling the nearness of Olvido, the tragedy had become a delight.
“You’re not hurt?” he asked, wondering if he might be able to touch her, too.
“No. Just a little scared,” she replied, raising her voice. “I got down on the ground in case a bomb fell in the forest. There. All better.” Olvido put the stained handkerchief back into her pocket. “I better get home. My mother will be worried. Goodbye, then.”