Ines of My Soul Read Free Page B

canopy of the forest and to the burning summer sky above it, and shouted with pure and simple joy.
    In Juan’s absences, my passion cooled, my anger heated up, and I would determine to throw him out of my life, but as soon as he reappeared with some pale excuse and his wise lover’s hands, I would surrender. And so would begin another identical cycle: seduction, promises, submission, the bliss of love, and the suffering of a new separation. The first year went by without our having set a date for the wedding, then a second and a third. By then my reputation had been dragged through the mud; everyone was saying that we were doing wicked things in every dark corner we could find. It was true, but no one ever had proof; we were very cautious. The same Gypsy who had predicted my long life sold me the secret for not getting pregnant: a vinegar-soaked sponge. I had learned, through the counsel of my sister Asunción, and my friends, that the best way to control a man was to deny him favors, but not even a martyred saint could deny pleasure to Juan de Málaga. I was the one who sought opportunities to be alone with him and make love. Anywhere, not just in dark corners. He had an extraordinary ability, which I never found in any other man, to make me happy, in any position and in very little time. My pleasure mattered more to him than his own. He learned the map of my body by heart, and he also taught me to enjoy it alone. “Look how beautiful you are, woman,” he told me again and again. I did not share his flattering opinion, but I was proud of provoking desire in the most handsome man in Extremadura.
    If my grandfather had had proof that we were making love like demented rabbits, even in the hidden corners of the church, he would have killed us both. He was very sensitive when it came to questions of honor. That honor was in large measure tied to the virtue of the women of the family, and therefore when the first whispers reached his hairy ears he exploded with rage, and threatened to beat me until I was where I belonged: with other devils. A stain on one’s honor, he said, is cleansed only with blood. My mother stepped in front of him with arms akimbo and that look of hers that would stop a charging bull, and made him see that I was more than ready to be married. All he had to do was convince Juan. So my grandfather enlisted his friends in the Vera-Cruz brotherhood, all influential men in Plasencia, to twist the arm of my recalcitrant sweetheart, who had already been begged many times.
    We were married one luminous Tuesday in September, market day in the Plaza Mayor, when the aroma of flowers, fruits, and fresh vegetables spread through the city. Juan took me to Málaga, where we moved into a rented room with windows overlooking the street. I tried to make it pretty with lace curtains and furniture my grandfather made for us in his workshop. Juan came to his role of husband with no wealth but his extravagant ambition, and with the brio of a stallion, even though we knew each other as well as an old married couple. There were days when we never got around to dressing because the hours flew by as we made love. We even ate in bed. Despite the excesses of passion, I soon realized that from the point of view of convenience, the marriage was a mistake. Juan had no surprises for me, he had shown me his character during all those years I had known him, but it was one thing to see his faults from a certain distance and something very different to live with them. The only virtues that I remember were his instinct to make me happy in bed and his toreador’s good looks, which I never tired of admiring.
    â€œThis man is not good for much,” my mother warned me one day when she came to visit us.
    â€œAs long as he gives me children, the rest doesn’t matter.”
    â€œAnd who is going to provide for the little ones?” she insisted.
    â€œI am, that’s why I have my needle and thread,” I