The House of Impossible Loves Read Free

don’t understand,” he said.
    “Don’t they have curses where you’re from?”
    “We have our superstitions, señora.”
    “Well, what you call a superstition, here is a curse as big as a pile of dung—especially when it comes to the Lagunas, and to Clara, who is the last of her line. As far back as the town can remember, every single one of the Laguna women has been cursed.”
    “So the men in the family are not.”
    “Men!” She slapped her thigh. “What men? The belly of a Laguna has never carried a male. Not one of them has ever married, either. They’re doomed to a life of disgrace, to bear only girls who will suffer the same fate.”
    “And no man—”
    “Not one,” the barmaid interrupted. “Not one man has dared break the spell. Keep in mind that only misfortune will come to any who tries.”
    “What sort of misfortune?”
    “No one knows for sure. They say that years ago the Laguna witch, as she’s called, tried to cast a spell on one but failed, and was left with a blind eye.”
     
    The next morning, the moment he woke, the Andalusian landowner recalled his conversation with a burly man who had walked him back to the inn in his inebriated state.
    “Oh, I understand,” he said. “Me and every other man in this town. If only the Laguna with the flaxen eyes weren’t cursed . . .”
    It was the morning of All Souls’ Day. After the first church bells rang, the fog dispersed and the townspeople came into the streets in their Sunday best to honor their dead. Flower stalls had been set up on every corner of the town square. Women dressed in mourning attire sold red and white carnations, daisies, even a few roses to the rich. On one side of the church, a cobblestone path led up a hill. Beyond the last of the houses, a dirt track continued on. Shrubs along one side bordered the cemetery. Tucked into a portico on this hill, the Laguna witch was selling lilies sprinkled with a potion to ensure the spirits stayed buried in their graves. Women in whispering skirts and veiled hats, men in corduroy pants and berets passed. Many stopped, avoiding their neighbors’ eyes, to buy one of those lilies, sparing them a visit from a relative’s soul.
    The cemetery was bordered on three sides by cypress trees. Half a dozen family vaults bore the same coat of arms as the noblemen’s homes, and the rest was a jumble of graves. As the crowd filed in, magpies greeted them with caws and bright shiny wings. Every headstone was scrubbed clean before prayers and flowers were offered. Women scoured the gold-lettered epitaphs and oval portraits, while men pulled weeds. Those whose dead lay in a vault brought their servants to clean with hands already chafed and red. By noon, the cemetery smelled like a freshly mopped floor.
    The Andalusian spent the morning recovering in his room, drinking coffee and recalling the barmaid’s warning about the Laguna curse. Meanwhile, Clara sat at home waiting for him to take her for a ride.
    After lunch, the landowner set out with the hunters from Madrid. More than once his hounds followed the scent of a stag, but when he had the animal in his sights, crouched in the bush, the rifle would begin to shake in his hands. The flanks of his prey became Clara’s mane of chestnut hair, and the stag would disappear into the woods. Nor did he catch any of the rabbits his hounds tracked. The yellow beech leaves so like Clara’s eyes made him forget why he was even there. He sat on a bed of ferns, damp seeping into his pants, his rifle silent on his lap. The hunters from Madrid wondered what was wrong; this man had traveled half of Spain to hunt in Castilian lands and now dragged himself around, unable to fire a shot.
    The four of them returned to town when the forest swallowed the sun. The Andalusian declined their invitation to dine at the tavern, excused himself, and had his horse saddled. Within minutes he was digging his spurs into its flanks and galloping off.
    A ghostly full moon lit the