The House of the Spirits (27 page)

Blanca did not know that Jean was spying on her. He had seen her slip out the window in men's clothing many times. He would follow her part of the way, but he always turned back, afraid that the dogs would attack him in the dark. But from the way she was headed, he knew she always went to the river.

Meanwhile, Trueba still had not made up his mind about the chinchillas. As a sort of test, he had agreed to set up a cage with a few pairs of the rodents, imitating on a reduced scale the enterprise under consideration. It was the one and only time anyone saw Jean de Satigny with his sleeves rolled up for work. Nonetheless, the chinchillas came down with a disease peculiar to rats, and they were all dead within two weeks. He could not even tan their skins, because their fur turned dark and fell from the hide as easily as feathers from the skin of a boiled fowl. Jean stared in horror at the bald cadavers, with their stiff little feet and empty eyes, his hopes dashed of convincing Esteban Trueba, who lost all interest in the fur trade at the sight of such extensive loss of life.

“If this had hit a whole factory, I would have been completely ruined,” Trueba concluded.

Between the plague of the chinchillas and Blanca's escapades, the count wasted several months of his time. He was growing weary of all the negotiations, and he could see that Blanca was never going to notice his charms. He could also see that the rodent farm would never be a reality, so he decided that he had better hasten things along before some clever fellow won the heiress. Besides, he was beginning to like Blanca, now that she was more robust and had acquired that languor that was smoothing away her rough, peasanty edges. He preferred women who were placid and well rounded, and the sight of Blanca stretched out on cushions looking up at the sky during their siesta reminded him of his mother. At times she even moved him. From a host of small details imperceptible to others, Jean learned to guess when she was planning one of her nocturnal excursions to the river. She would sit through the evening meal without eating, on the pretext that she had a headache, and ask to be excused early from the table; there would be a strange gleam in her eyes and an impatience and eagerness in her motions that he had come to recognize. One night he decided to follow her all the way, to put an end to a situation that threatened to continue indefinitely. He was sure that Blanca had a lover, but he did not think it could be anything serious. Personally, Jean de Satigny had no particular fixation on virginity, and he had not raised the issue when he asked her hand in marriage. What interested him in her were other things, which could not be lost in a moment of pleasure at the river's edge.

After Blanca retired to her room and the rest of the family had left for theirs, Jean de Satigny remained behind in the dark drawing room, his ear cocked to the sounds of the house, until he calculated that she would be climbing out the window. He went out into the courtyard and stood under the trees to wait for her. He squatted in the shadows for more than half an hour, with nothing out of the ordinary disturbing the peace of the evening. Bored with waiting, he was just getting ready to go to bed when he noticed that Blanca's window was wide open. He realized that she must have leapt before he had positioned himself in the garden to observe her.

“Merde,”
he muttered.

Hoping that the dogs would not alert the entire household with their barking and that they would not jump him, he began walking toward the river, taking the path he had seen Blanca take many times before. He was not used to walking the plowed earth in his elegant shoes, or jumping over stones and sidestepping puddles, but the night was very bright, with a beautiful full moon that lit the sky with a phantasmagoric splendor. As soon as he had overcome his fear of the dogs, he was able to appreciate the beauty of the moment. He walked for at least a quarter of an hour before glimpsing the first beds of rushes along the riverbanks. He redoubled his caution and walked even more quietly, being careful not to give himself away by stepping on any branches. The moon was reflected in the water with a glassy brilliance, and the breeze gently stirred the rushes and the treetops. Absolute silence reigned, and for a moment he had the illusion that he was in the dream of a sleepwalker, in which he walked and walked without getting anywhere, always remaining in the same enchanted place, where time had stopped and where if you tried to touch the trees, which looked within hand's reach, you found only empty space. He had to make an effort to recover his usual state of mind, which was realistic and pragmatic. In a bend of the river, between huge gray rocks lit by the moon, he saw them, so close that he could almost touch them. They were naked. The man had his back to him, but he had no difficulty recognizing the Jesuit priest who had helped officiate at the funeral mass of old Pedro García. This surprised him. Blanca slept with her head resting on the smooth brown stomach of her lover. The frail light of the moon threw metallic rays across their bodies, and Jean de Satigny shivered at the sight of Blanca, who at that moment seemed to him the image of perfection.

It took the elegant French count nearly a minute to come out of the dreamlike state into which he had been swept by the sight of the lovers, the moon, and the silence of the surrounding fields, and to realize that the situation was far more serious than he had imagined. In the lovers' postures he could see the abandon typical of those who have known each other for a long time. What he was looking at did not at all resemble an erotic summer idyll, as he had supposed, but rather a marriage of body and soul. Jean de Satigny could not have known that Blanca and Pedro Tercero had slept this way the first day they met, and that they had continued doing so every time they could over all these years. Still, he knew it instinctively.

Trying not to make even the slightest sound, he turned and began walking back to the main house, wondering how to handle the situation. When he reached the house, he had already decided to tell Blanca's father, because Esteban Trueba's ever-ready anger seemed to him to be the best means for solving the problem. Let the natives work it out among themselves, he thought.

Jean de Satigny did not wait for morning. He knocked on his host's door, and before Trueba had shaken off his sleep, he hurled his version of the story at him. He said he had been unable to sleep because of the heat and that he had gone out for air, wandered down toward the river, and come upon the depressing spectacle of his future bride sleeping in the arms of the bearded priest, naked in the moonlight. For just a moment, this threw Trueba off course, because he could not imagine his daughter going to bed with Father José Dulce María, but he quickly realized what had happened, and understood the joke that had been played on him during the old man's funeral, realizing that his daughter's seducer was none other than Pedro Tercero García, that son of a bitch who would pay for this the rest of his life. He hitched up his pants, pulled on his boots, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and grabbed his riding whip from the wall.

“Wait here for me,
Don,
” he ordered the Frenchman, who in any case had no intention of accompanying him.

Esteban Trueba ran to the stable and mounted his horse without bothering to saddle it. He was panting with indignation, his bones locked in position and feeling the effort, his heart pounding in his chest. “I'm going to kill them both,” he muttered over and over, like a litany. He followed the road in the direction the Frenchman had indicated, but he had no need to ride all the way to the river, because halfway there he ran into Blanca, who was returning to the house, humming as she walked, her hair disheveled, her clothing dirty, with the happy look of those who have nothing else to ask from life. When he saw his daughter, Esteban Trueba was unable to restrain his evil character and he charged her with his horse, whip in the air, beating her mercilessly, lash upon lash, until the girl fell flat and rigid to the ground. Her father jumped down from his horse, shook her until she came to, and shouted every insult known to man plus others he made up in the heat of the moment.

“Who is it? Tell me who it is or I'll kill you!”

“I'll never tell,” she sobbed.

Then Esteban Trueba understood that this was not the way to get something from his daughter, who had inherited his own stubbornness. He realized that, as always, he had got carried away with his punishment. He put her up on the horse and they returned to the house. Either instinct or the barking of the dogs had alerted Clara and the servants, who were waiting in the doorway with all the lights blazing. The only person not to be found anywhere was the count, who had taken advantage of the tumult to pack his bags, yoke the horses to his carriage, and leave discreetly for the hotel in town.

“My God, Esteban! What have you done?” Clara exclaimed at the sight of her daughter, who was covered with mud and blood.

Clara and Pedro Segundo García carried Blanca to her bed. The foreman had grown deathly pale, but he said nothing. Clara washed her daughter, applied cold compresses to her bruises, and rocked her until she had calmed down. After the girl was asleep, she went to confront her husband, who had locked himself in his study and was pacing furiously up and down, beating the walls with his whip, cursing and kicking all the furniture. When he saw her, Esteban vented his rage on Clara. He accused her of having raised Blanca without morals, without religion, without principles, like a libertine atheist, even worse, without a sense of her own class, because you could understand if she wanted to do it with someone from a decent family, but not with this hick, this simpleton, this hothead, this lazy good-for-nothing son of a bitch.

“I should have killed him when I said I would! Sleeping with my daughter! I swear I'm going to find him and when I lay my hands on him I'm going to cut his balls off if it's the last thing I ever do. I swear on my mother's soul he's going to regret that he was ever born!”

“Pedro Tercero García hasn't done a thing you haven't done yourself,” Clara said when she could interrupt him. “You also slept with unmarried women not of your own class. The only difference is that he did it for love. And so did Blanca.”

Trueba stared at her, paralyzed with surprise. For a second his fury seemed to deflate, and he felt as if she were making fun of him, but a wave of blood immediately rushed to his brain. He lost control and struck her in the face, knocking her against the wall. Clara fell to the floor without a sound. Esteban seemed to awaken from a trance. He knelt by her side, crying and begging her forgiveness, trying to explain, calling her by all the special names he used only when they were in bed, not understanding how he could have raised his hand against her, the only human being he really cared about and for whom he had never, not even in the worst moments of their common life, lost respect. He picked her up in his arms, seated her lovingly in an armchair, wet a handkerchief to put on her forehead, and tried to make her drink a little water. Finally, Clara opened her eyes. Blood was flowing from her nose. When she opened her mouth, she spat out several teeth, which fell to the floor, and a thread of bloody saliva trickled down her chin and neck.

As soon as Clara was able to move, she pushed Esteban out of her way, rose with great difficulty, and left the study, trying to walk as erect as she could. At the other side of the door was Pedro Segundo García, who managed to grab her just as she stumbled. Sensing him beside her, Clara collapsed. She pressed her swollen face against the shoulder of this man who had stood beside her through all the worst moments of her life, and she began to cry. Pedro Segundo García's shirt was stained with blood.

Clara never spoke to her husband again. She stopped using her married name and removed the fine gold wedding ring that he had placed on her finger twenty years before, on that memorable night when Barrabás was assassinated with a butcher's knife.

Two days later, Clara and Blanca left Tres Marías and returned to the capital. Esteban, humiliated and furious, remained with the sensation that something in his life had been destroyed forever.

Pedro Segundo drove his mistress and her daughter to the station. After that night he was never again to see them, and he was silent and withdrawn. He helped them to their seats on the train and then stood with his hat in his hand and his eyes lowered, not knowing how to say goodbye. Clara hugged him. At first he was stiff and somewhat taken aback, but his own emotions quickly triumphed and he timidly encircled her with his arms and left an imperceptible kiss on her cheek. They looked at each other through the window for the last time and their eyes filled with tears. The faithful administrator returned to his small brick house, made a bundle of all his personal belongings, wrapped the small amount of money he had managed to accumulate over the years in a handkerchief, and left. Trueba saw him say goodbye to the other tenants and climb up on his horse. He tried to stop him, explaining that what had happened had nothing to do with him, and that it was not right that he should lose his job, his friends, his house, and his security because of his son.

“I don't want to be here when you find my son,
patrón,
” were the last words Pedro Segundo García spoke before trotting off in the direction of the highway.

*  *  *

I felt so alone after that! I didn't know then that loneliness would never leave me, and that the only person I would ever have close to me the rest of my life would be an eccentric, bohemian granddaughter with green hair like Rosa's. But that was still many years ahead of me.

After Clara left, I looked around and noticed many new faces at Tres Marías. My old friends had either died or gone away. I had lost my wife and my daughter. My contact with my sons was minimal. My mother, my sister, dear old Nana, and old Pedro García were all dead. Even Rosa returned to haunt me like an unforgettable grief, and I could no longer count on Pedro Segundo García, who had stood beside me for thirty-five years. I couldn't stop crying. The tears would run down my face and I would brush them off with my hand, but they were followed by others. “Why don't you all go to hell!” I would roar into the far corners of the house. I wandered through the empty rooms, went into Clara's bedroom and rifled her wardrobe and her dresser in the hope of finding something she had worn—anything, so I could hold it to my nose and retrieve, even for a fleeting instant, that sweet, clean smell of hers. I would lie down on her bed, bury my face in her pillow, caress the objects she had left on her night table, and feel completely desolate.