Of Love and Shadows Read online

  Praise for Of Love and Shadows

  “Isabel Allende is a writer of deep conviction, but she knows that in the end it is people, not issues, who matter most. The people in Of Love and Shadows are so real, their triumphs and defeats are so faithful to the truth of human existence, that we see the world in miniature. This is precisely what fiction should do.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Allende skillfully evokes both the terrors of daily life under military rule and the subtler forms of resistance in the hidden corners . . . She can just as deftly depict loving tenderness as convey the high fire of eroticism. And when you’ve successfully mingled sex and politics with a noble cause, how can you go wrong?”

  —New York Time Book Review

  “Constantly readable, often beautiful, immensely compelling.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “We are by turns enchanted and entertained. . . . Allende’s deeply lyrical voice marries the world of magic and political evil most credibly.”

  —Los Angeles Times Book Review

  “Allende is a born storyteller.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Allende is a smashing storyteller who brings the most minor characters vividly to life. A tale of love and political commitment.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Allende is a superb writer.”

  —Arizona Daily Star

  “Of Love and Shadows has all the ingredients of excellent fiction: tense drama, rich detail and characterization, and timeless themes.”

  —San Diego Tribune

  “[T]he book is not a political tract nor a dogmatic treatise; it is a novel in the best sense of the word. It has been beautifully translated by Margaret Sayers Peden, one of the best translators of works of Pablo Neruda. Here she very successfully recreates the beauty and lyricism of Allende’s poetical prose.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “Ms. Allende’s second novel will undoubtedly reap as much acclaim as her first, The House of the Spirits. Melodramatic, serious, and unfunny, it is as the end of all burdensome dictatorships should be. Ms. Allende does not develop characters, for her characters were born and grown long before she put pen to paper. She tells us a story she may not have witnessed, but knew enough of to re-create.”

  —Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Now, with her second novel, Of Love and Shadows, Allende has demonstrated that she is, beyond question, one of the great Latin American writers of today . . . It is a rare and exciting experience to discover the work of a writer as good as Isabel Allende. Of Love and Shadows is a dark and disturbing novel in many ways, sometimes bloody and frightening. Yet Allende’s writing, in this fine translation by Margaret Sayers Peden, is so warm, so human, so filled with love for her characters and her country, that in the end human nature, in its goodness and its strength, counteracts the horror and casts light and love where before there was only shadow.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Allende’s second novel is a major achievement and worth anyone’s time.”

  —Milwaukee Journal

  “These surreal elements and the parallels between this novel’s tragedies and actual events make Of Love and Shadows intriguing reading as well as pure, gobble-it-up summer fare.”

  —The Virginian Pilot and The Ledger-Star

  “Allende’s touch is gentle. She does not hold back the details of horror, but her characters are so tenderly given to us that we can allow ourselves to feel with them.”

  —North Coast View

  “Chilean novelist Allende offers a dialectic on love and death, feminism and politics.”

  —San Antonio Light

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  — PART ONE —

  Another Spring

  Only love with its science makes us so innocent.

  —Violeta Parra

  The first sunny day of spring evaporated the dampness that had accumulated in the soil through the winter months, and warmed the fragile bones of the old people who now could stroll the gentle orthopedic paths of the garden. Only the old depressive remained in his bed, because it was futile to take him out into the fresh air when his eyes saw nothing but his own nightmares and his ears were deaf to the clamor of the birds. Josefina Bianchi, the actress, dressed in the long silk dress she had worn to declaim Chekhov a half century earlier and carrying a parasol to protect her veined-porcelain skin, walked slowly among the flower beds that soon would be crowded with flowers and bumblebees.

  “Poor lads,” smiled the octogenarian when she saw a slight trembling in the forget-me-nots and divined there the presence of her admirers, the ones who loved her in anonymity and hid in the vegetation to spy on her as she passed by.

  The Colonel inched forward, braced on the aluminum walker that helped support his cotton-wool legs. To celebrate the birth of spring and salute the colors, as was his duty each morning, he had pinned on his chest the cardboard and tinfoil medals Irene had made for him. Whenever his agitated breathing permitted, he shouted instructions to his troops and ordered the tottering great-grandfathers off the Parade Grounds where they were in danger of being flattened by infantry troops displaying their most spirited parade step and their spit-and-polish leather boots. Near the telephone wire, the flag flapped on the breeze like an invisible turkey buzzard, and his soldiers stood rigidly at attention, eyes front, drumroll reverberating, manly voices raised in the sacred hymn that only his ears could hear. He was interrupted by a nurse in battle uniform, silent and sly as those women usually are, armed with a napkin to wipe away the saliva that dribbled from the corners of his lips and collected on his shirt. He wanted to offer her a decoration, or a promotion, but she spun away, leaving him standing there with his good intentions unfulfilled, after warning him that if he dirtied his pants she was going to paddle his behind, because she was sick and tired of cleaning up after other people. Who can this madwoman be speaking to? the Colonel wondered, deducing that she was obviously referring to the wealthiest widow in the land. She was the only one in the encampment who wore diapers, owing to the cannon shot that had blown her digestive system to bits and consigned her forever to a wheelchair, although not even that had earned her the slightest respect. If she dropped her guard for an instant, they stole her hairpins and her ribbons. The world is filled with ruffians and scoundrels.

  “Thieves! They’ve stolen my house slippers!” screeched the widow.

  “Be quiet, dear, the neighbors can hear you,” her nurse commanded, pushing the chair into the sun.

  The invalid kept firing accusations until she ran out of breath and had to stop or else die, but she had sufficient strength left to point an arthritic finger at the satyr who was furtively opening his fly to expose his doleful penis to the ladies. No one paid the least attention, except for a tiny old lady dressed in mourning, who regarded the poor dried fig with a certain tenderness. She was in love with its owner, and every night left the door to her room encouragingly ajar.

  “Whore!” muttered the wealthy widow, but had to smile as she suddenly remembered times long gone by, before her husband died, when he had paid with coins of gold for the privilege of being clasped between her heavy thighs, a not infrequent event. She had ended up with a bag so heavy that no sailor alive could have
slung it over his shoulder.

  “Where are my gold coins?”

  “What are you talking about, dear?” replied the absentminded woman who was pushing her wheelchair.

  “You stole them! I’m going to call the police.”

  “Don’t be a pest, dearie,” the other replied, unperturbed.

  The hemiplegic had been propped up on a bench in his elegantly British, leather-elbow-patched jacket, legs wrapped in a shawl, serene and dignified in spite of the deformity of one side of his face, his useless hand tucked into a pocket and an empty pipe in the other. He was waiting for the mail; that was why he demanded to be seated facing the main door, to watch for Irene and know at first glance whether she was bringing him a letter. Beside him, taking the sun, was a melancholy old man with whom he never spoke because they were enemies, although neither remembered the cause of their disagreement. Occasionally, by mistake, one of them would speak but receive no answer, more out of deafness than hostility.

  On the second-floor balcony where the wild pansies were still without leaf or bloom appeared Beatriz Alcántara de Beltrán. She was wearing grass-green suède pants and a French blouse of the same shade, matching her eye shadow and malachite ring. Fresh and tranquil after her session of Eastern exercises for relaxing tensions and forgetting the night’s dreams, she held a glass of fruit juice good for improving the digestion and toning the skin. She breathed deeply, noting the new warmth in the air, and counted the days left before her vacation trip. It had been a hard winter and she had lost her tan. Frowning, she inspected the garden below, beautiful in the budding spring, but she was oblivious to the light on the stone walls and the fragrance of moist earth. The perennial ivy had survived the last freezes, the red roof tiles still shone with night dew, but the coffered and shuttered pavilion of her guests seemed faded and drab. She decided she would have the house painted. Her eyes counted the old people and reviewed every minor detail to assure herself that her instructions were being carried out. Everyone was there except the poor depressive, who lay in his bed more dead than alive. She also inspected the nurses, noting the clean starched aprons, the hair pulled back in a bun, the rubber-soled shoes. She smiled, satisfied; everything was functioning smoothly, and the danger of the rains with their attendant epidemics had passed without snatching away a single one of her clients. With any kind of luck, the rent would be paid for a few more months, since even the bedridden old man might last the summer.

  From her observatory Beatriz spied her daughter Irene entering the garden of The Will of God Manor. Annoyed, she could tell that she had not used the side door with access to their private patio and the stairway to the secondfloor rooms where they had installed their living quarters. Beatriz had had the separate entrance constructed specifically so she could avoid walking through the geriatric home when she left or entered the house; infirmity depressed her and was something she preferred to observe from a distance. Her daughter, in contrast, never missed an opportunity to visit the guests, as if she actually enjoyed their company. She seemed to have discovered a language that overcame their deafness and faulty memories. Now she was wandering among them, handing out soft candies in consideration for their false teeth. Beatriz watched her walk over to the hemiplegic, show him a letter, help him open it—since he could not with his one good hand—and stand by his side whispering. Then she went for a brief stroll with the other old gentleman, and although her mother could not hear the words from the balcony, she supposed they were talking about his son, his daughter-in-law, and his grandson, the only subjects that interested him. Irene gave each one a smile, a pat, a few minutes of her time, while on her balcony Beatriz stood thinking that she would never understand that bizarre young woman with whom she had so little in common. Suddenly the old satyr stepped up to Irene and placed his hands over her breasts, squeezing them with more curiosity than lust. She stood motionless for a few moments that to her mother seemed interminable, until one of the nurses noticed what was happening and ran to intervene. Irene stopped her with a gesture.

  “Leave him alone. He’s not hurting anyone,” she smiled.

  Beatriz abandoned her observation post, biting her lips. She went to the kitchen where Rosa, her servant, was chopping the vegetables for lunch, lulled by a soap opera on the radio. She had a round, dark, ageless face, an enormous midriff, voluminous belly, gargantuan thighs. She was so fat that she could not cross her legs or scratch her back. “How do you wipe your bottom, Rosa?” Irene had asked when she was a little girl, marveling before the inviting bulk that every year increased a few pounds. “Where do you get such strange ideas, little one! Pleasingly stout is what beauty’s about,” Rosa replied without changing expression, faithful to her custom of speaking in proverbs.

  “I’m worried about Irene,” Beatriz said, sitting on a kitchen stool and slowly sipping her fruit juice.

  Rosa said nothing, but turned off the radio, inviting the confidences of her patrona, who sighed deeply. I have to speak with my daughter; I don’t know what in the world she’s up to, or who any of that riffraff she runs around with are. Why doesn’t she go to the Club to play tennis, where she can meet some young men of her own class? She uses the excuse of her work to do whatever she pleases. Journalism has always seemed a little questionable to me, more suitable for someone of a lower class. If her fiancé knew some of the ideas that Irene gets in her head, he wouldn’t put up with it. The future wife of an Army officer can’t allow herself such luxuries—how many times have I told her that? And don’t tell me that worrying about a girl’s reputation is out of style; times change, but not that much. Besides, Rosa, now the military move in the best society, it’s not the way it used to be. I’m tired of Irene’s outrageous behavior. I have my own worries, my life isn’t easy—you know that better than anyone. Ever since Eusebio ran off and left me with a frozen bank account and a trainload of expenses that would run an embassy, I’ve had to work miracles to keep my head above water; but it’s all so difficult, the old people are a burden, and after all’s said and done I think they cost me more expense and energy than I earn from them. Getting them to pay their rent is like pulling teeth, especially that damned old widow, she’s always behind on her monthly payment. This business hasn’t turned out to be a bed of roses. I don’t have the strength to go trailing around after my daughter to see that she creams her face at night and dresses properly, and doesn’t scare off her fiancé. She’s old enough to take care of herself, isn’t she? Look at me; if I didn’t keep at it, what shape would I be in? I’d look like most of my friends, with a face lined with wrinkles and crow’s-feet, and rolls and bulges everywhere. I’ve kept the figure of a twenty-year-old, though, and look how smooth my skin is. No, no one can say that I have an easy life—just the opposite, all these surprises are killing me.

  “You can see the gates of glory, señora, but the Devil’s got you by the tail.”

  “Why don’t you talk to my daughter, Rosa? I think she pays more attention to you than she does to me.”

  Rosa set her knife on the table and looked at her mistress without sympathy. On principle, she never agreed with her, especially in anything concerning Irene. She did not like to hear her little girl criticized; still, she had to admit that in this case the mother was right. As much as Beatriz, Rosa longed to see Irene in a filmy veil and virginal flowers, leaving the church on the arm of Captain Gustavo Morante, walking between two rows of raised sabers; but her knowledge of the world—acquired through soap operas on radio and television—had taught her that it was everyone’s lot to suffer in this life and to bear many trials and tribulations before reaching the happy ending.

  “It’s best to leave her alone. A cicada born will sing to its last morn. Irene won’t live a long life, anyway—you can see that in her eyes.”

  “Rosa, my God! What kind of foolishness is that?”

  Irene entered the kitchen amid a whirlwind of full cotton skirts and flying hair. She kissed both women on
the cheeks and opened the refrigerator door and poked around inside. Her mother was on the verge of delivering an impromptu lecture, but in a flash of lucidity realized that any word from her would be useless, because that young woman with the finger smudges on her left breast was as remote from her as someone from another planet.

  “Spring’s here, Rosa. The forget-me-nots will be blooming soon,” Irene said with a wink of complicity Rosa had no difficulty interpreting; both of them had been thinking of the baby-that-fell-through-the-skylight.

  “What are you up to?” Beatriz asked.

  “I have to go out on a story, Mama. I’m going to interview a kind of saint. They say she works miracles.”

  “What kind of miracles?”

  “She removes warts, cures insomnia and hiccups, comforts the forlorn, and makes it rain,” Irene laughed.

  Beatriz sighed, with no sign of appreciating her daughter’s humor. Rosa returned to her task of chopping carrots and suffering along with the radio soap opera, muttering that when live saints are at work, dead saints will shirk. Irene left to change her clothes and look for her tape recorder as she waited for Francisco Leal, the photographer who always went along with her on assignments.

  * * *

  Digna Ranquileo looked at the fields and noticed the signs that announced the change of seasons.

  “Soon the animals will be in heat and Hipólito will be off with the circus,” she muttered between prayers.

  She had the habit of talking with God. That day, as she performed her breakfast chores, she lost herself in long prayers and confessions. Her children often told her that people laughed at her for that evangelical fixation. Couldn’t she do it silently, and without moving her lips? She paid no attention to them. She felt the Saviour as a physical presence in her life, nearer and more helpful than her husband, whom she saw only during the winter. She tried not to ask too many favors of the Lord, because she had learned that celestial beings are bored by too many requests. She limited herself to seeking counsel in her endless doubts and pardon for her own and others’ sins, giving thanks in passing for any small benefactions: the rain stopped, Jacinto’s fever is gone, the tomatoes are ripe. Nevertheless, for several weeks now, she had been regularly and insistently importuning the Redeemer with prayers for Evangelina.