The House of Impossible Loves Read Free Page A

way to Clara Laguna’s house. Her mother had gone to town, entering kitchens and sitting rooms through back doors to predict the future of the living and the dead. The landowner found Clara sitting in the dry streambed, next to the pearl-shaped tomatoes. He walked down to the rocky ground muttering, “So what if she’s cursed, and so what if I can do nothing to change it.”
    Clara stood up the moment she saw him, her face stained with tears. The Andalusian sank to his knees and sang a folk song, disturbing the sleeping stray dogs near and far. It was a warm night for All Souls’ Day. Clara threw a stone at him, opening a small gash on his forehead. He felt the slow trickle of blood and began to intone a
saeta
. The moonlight shined intensely, and Clara threw no more stones. Instead she looked at the landowner’s blue-black hair, his bloody forehead, his olive-black eyes. She kissed him and cleaned his cut with the hem of her dress. He did nothing to stop her. Then he took her by the waist and helped her up onto the back of his dapple-gray horse.
    They galloped to the oak grove, dismounted, and kissed. Stepping on the animal-shaped shadows projected by the trees, they came to the river. He took off his cloak, laying it on red soil where his wound dripped blood. Clara removed her wool shawl and the amulet she had put back on that morning. The wind stripped them of thoughts of spells, his cartridge belt, her petticoat, his hunting pants. Their bodies sank into soft earth, and as she listened to the murmuring water, the pain of her first time tasted of river moss.

2
    T HE ANDALUSIAN STAYED until the first snows of December. He and Clara met in the oak grove, their preferred place for lovemaking. Only when the wind froze their faces did they seek refuge in her house. Clara’s mother would leave for town, hauling her sack containing the bones of a cat, and they would frolic among pots used for potions and jars of magic ingredients in that house that had only one room. The lovers went to his room at the inn once, but Clara was uncomfortable in that bed with its starched sheets, warmed by the fire, where crackling logs reminded her of the townspeople’s chatter.
    Everyone was whispering about Clara Laguna and the young Andalusian: the widows in church, counting their rosary beads, gossiping in their huddles of black shawls; the kitchen servants of noble homes, and their ladies in lace-filled parlors over
café con leche;
the young women at the fountain, jugs perched indignantly on their hips, and at the river, washing clothes; the men in the stables, in the fields with their oxen, at the bar over an anisette.
    One evening the landowner went to the tavern after a successful hunt where he downed a stag. His rifle finally held steady and the animal’s flanks no longer reminded him of a mane of hair, for he knew Clara Laguna was waiting, and she was a trophy much more beautiful than any rack. After he’d waited awhile at the bar, La Colorá seated him at a table alone. His hunting companions had returned to Madrid.
    “How about a nice plate of pig’s ears?” she asked.
    “And a good bottle of wine. I want to celebrate my catch.”
    “I hope the hunter is not being hunted. You didn’t take my advice.”
    “You should know a man is sometimes reluctant to give up certain things. Now, bring me those pig’s ears. I’m hungry.”
    The Andalusian savored his meal, the wine, and the look of envy in other men’s eyes. That young landowner had achieved what most wanted but never dared attempt, or had been spurned when they did.
     
    The afternoon before leaving town, the Andalusian headed to Clara’s. She was waiting at the bottom of the dry ravine. Since their affair began, she had taken him to the most scenic places around: fields of wheat and barley, cobalt mountains where vultures soared overhead, green pastures with winding paths and shepherd huts in the distance. But that last afternoon, Clara wanted to show him a place