A Long Petal of the Sea Page 17

  Jordi Moline, the Catalan shoemaker, turned out to be the ideal business partner, always happy with the Winnipeg’s modest earnings and pleased to have somewhere of his own to go that was more welcoming than his widower’s home. He talked with his friends, drank a mixture of Nescafé and brandy, enjoyed dishes from his home country, and played tunes on the accordion. Victor had offered to teach him chess, but Moline could never see the point of moving pieces here and there on a board without any money being at stake. On those nights when he saw how tired Victor was, Jordi sent him off to sleep and was delighted to replace him, although he only served customers wine, beer, and brandy. He knew nothing about cocktails, regarding them as a fashion brought in by queers. His respect for Roser was matched by his affection for Marcel. He could spend hours crouched behind the counter playing with him; the little boy had become the grandson he never had.

  When one day Roser asked him if he still had any family in Catalonia, he told her he had left his village to seek fame and fortune more than thirty years earlier. He had been a seaman in Southeast Asia, a lumberjack in Oregon, a train driver and builder in Argentina; in short, he had many trades before coming to Chile and becoming well off thanks to his shoe factory.

  “Let’s just say that, in principle, I still have family over there, but God knows what has happened to them. In the war they were divided: some of them were Republican, others supported Franco; there were communist militiamen on one side, and priests and nuns on the other.”

  “Are you in contact with any of them?”

  “Yes, with a couple of relatives. In fact, I have a cousin who was in hiding until the end of the war and is now the town mayor. He’s a Fascist, but he’s a good man.”

  “One of these days I’m going to ask you a favor…”

  “Ask away, Roser.”

  “The thing is, during the Retreat my mother-in-law, Victor’s mother, went missing, and we don’t know what happened to her. We looked for her in the French concentration camps, we’ve made inquiries on both sides of the border, but have heard nothing.”

  “That happened to lots of people. So many dead, so many exiled or displaced, so many living clandestinely! The prisons are full to overflowing: every night they choose prisoners at random and take them out and shoot them on the spot, without a trial or anything. That’s Franco’s justice for you. I don’t want to be pessimistic, Roser, but your mother-in-law could have died…”

  “I know. Carme preferred death to exile. She was separated from us during the Retreat to France. She disappeared one night without saying goodbye or leaving any trace. If you have any contacts in Catalonia, maybe they could ask around after her.”

  “Give me her details and I’ll make sure to do it. But I don’t hold out much hope, Roser. War is a hurricane that destroys a lot in its path.”

  “Tell me about it, Don Jordi.”

  Carme Dalmau wasn’t the only person Roser was looking for. One of her occasional but regular recitals was at the Venezuelan embassy, a mansion buried among the trees of a leafy garden, where a single peacock strutted. The ambassador, Valentin Sanchez, was a sybarite who loved good food, fine liquor, and above all, music. He came from a line of musicians, poets, and dreamers. He had made several journeys to Europe to rescue forgotten musical scores, and in his music room had an extraordinary collection of instruments, from a harpsichord said to have belonged to Mozart to his most precious treasure: a prehistoric flute that, according to its owner, was carved from a mammoth’s tooth. Roser said nothing about her doubts concerning the authenticity of the harpsichord or the flute, but was grateful for the books Valentin Sanchez lent her on art history and music, as well as the honor of being the only person he allowed to play some of the instruments in his collection.

  On one of those nights she stayed behind with her host after all the guests had left, sharing a drink and talking of the extravagant project that had occurred to her, inspired by the ambassador’s collection: to create an orchestra of ancient instruments in Chile. It was an idea that both of them were passionate about: she wanted to conduct the orchestra, and he wanted to be its patron. Before saying good night, Roser plucked up her courage and asked if he could help her find somebody she had lost in exile. “His name is Aitor Ibarra, and he went to Venezuela because he had relatives there in the construction industry,” she told him.

  Two months later, a secretary called her from the embassy with details of Iñaki Ibarra and Sons, a building supplies firm in Maracaibo. Roser wrote several letters, convinced she was throwing a bottle into the sea. She never received any reply.

  * * *

  —

  THE PRETEXT OF OFELIA’S ill health that her family used for several months to explain the postponement of her marriage to Matias Eyzaguirre worked perfectly at the start of the following year, when Juana Nancucheo realized the girl was pregnant. First came the morning sickness, which Juana treated unsuccessfully with infusions of fennel, ginger, and cumin; soon afterward, she calculated that nine weeks had gone by without her seeing any sanitary towels in the laundry. One day when she saw Ofelia throwing up in the bathroom, she confronted her, arms akimbo. “Either you’re going to tell me who you’ve been with, or else you will have to tell your father,” she challenged her. Ofelia was almost completely ignorant about her own body; until the moment Juana asked her who she had been with, she hadn’t linked Victor Dalmau to the cause of her sickness. She had thought it was a stomach virus. She now understood what was happening to her, and the sense of panic left her speechless.

  “Who is the fellow?” Juana insisted.

  “I’d rather die than tell you,” Ofelia replied, once she could speak again. That was to be her only answer for the next fifty years.

  Juana took matters into her own hands, believing that prayers and homemade remedies could solve the problem without arousing the family’s suspicions. She offered a bunch of aromatic candles to Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, gave Ofelia rue tea, and pushed parsley stalks into her vagina. She gave her the rue knowing it was poisonous, but thought a perforated stomach was less serious than a huacho, a bastard. After a week this only brought an increase in the vomiting and an insurmountable tiredness; then Juana decided to turn to Felipe, the person she had always trusted. First she made him promise he wouldn’t tell a soul, but when she explained to him what was happening, Felipe convinced her it was too great a secret for the two of them to bear on their own.

  Felipe found Ofelia prostrate on her bed, doubled up with stomach pains from the rue and feverish with anxiety.

  “How did this happen?” he asked, trying to stay calm.

  “How it always does,” she replied.

  “This has never occurred before in our family.”

  “That’s what you think, Felipe. It occurs all the time, but men aren’t even aware of it. They’re women’s secrets.”

  “Who did you…” he mumbled, not knowing how to say it without offending her.

  “I’d rather die than tell you,” Ofelia insisted.

  “You’ll have to tell me, sister, because the only way out is for you to marry whoever did this to you.”

  “That’s impossible. He doesn’t live here.”

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t live here? Wherever he may be, we’ll find him, Ofelia. And if he doesn’t marry you…”

  “What do you mean? That you’ll kill him?”

  “My God! The things you say. I’ll talk firmly to him, but if that doesn’t work, Father will get involved…”

  “No! Not Father!”

  “We have to do something, Ofelia. It’s impossible to hide this: soon everybody will realize what’s going on, and there’ll be a terrible scandal. I’ll help you all I can, I promise.”

  In the end they agreed to tell their mother, so that she could get her husband used to the idea; after that, they would see. Laura del Solar greeted the
news persuaded that God was finally settling her debts with Him for all she owed. Ofelia’s drama was part of the price she had to pay to heaven, and the other, more costly one, being that her son Leonardo’s heart was always either beating wildly or remaining silent. As the doctors had forecast when he was born, his organs were weak and his life would be short. Slowly but surely, Baby was fading, but his mother, clinging to prayer and her dealings with the saints, refused to accept the obvious signs. Laura felt as if she were sinking in thick mud, dragging her family with her. Her headaches began at once, a pounding in the back of her neck that clouded her vision, leaving her blind.

  How was she going to tell Isidro? She had no way of softening the blow or his reaction. All they could do was wait awhile to see if divine goodness resolved Ofelia’s problem naturally—many pregnancies were frustrated early in the belly—but Felipe convinced her that the longer they waited, the worse the situation would become. He himself took on the task of braving his father in the library, while Laura and Ofelia, cowering at the back of the house, prayed with all the fervor of martyrs.

  More than an hour went by before Juana came to find them, with the message that they were to go at once to the library. Isidro del Solar met them on the threshold and immediately gave Ofelia two resounding slaps before Laura could shield her or Felipe grab his arm.

  “Who’s the swine that ruined my daughter? Tell me who he is!” he roared.

  “I’d rather die,” said Ofelia, wiping the blood from her nose on her sleeve.

  “You’re going to tell me even if I have to whip you!”

  “Go on and do it then. I’m never going to tell you!”

  “Father, please,” Felipe interrupted them.

  “Shut up! Didn’t I give orders that this damned brat be locked up? Where were you, Laura, to allow this to happen? I suppose you were at Mass, while the devil was strolling around our house. Do you realize the shame, the scandal of this? How will we be able to face people?” He continued shouting at the top of his voice until Felipe managed to interrupt him a second time.

  “Calm down, Father, and let’s try to find a solution. I’ll make some inquiries…”

  “Inquiries? What do you mean?” asked Isidro, suddenly relieved because he hadn’t been the one to suggest the obvious.

  “He means that I have an abortion,” said Ofelia, without losing her calm.

  “Can you think of any other solution?” Isidro barked.

  At this point Laura del Solar spoke up for the first time. In a trembling but very clear voice she said an abortion didn’t even bear thinking about, because that was a mortal sin.

  “Sin or not, this mess won’t be sorted out in heaven, but down here on earth. We’ll do whatever is necessary, and God will understand.”

  “We’re not going to do anything until we’ve spoken to Father Urbina,” said Laura.

  * * *

  —

  VICENTE URBINA ANSWERED THE family’s call that same night. He calmed them down just by being there, radiating intelligence and the strength of purpose of someone who knew how to deal with troubled souls and has a direct line to God. Accepting the glass of port he was offered, he declared he would speak to each of them separately, beginning with Ofelia, who by this time had a swollen face and a closed eye. He spoke with her for almost two hours, but he wasn’t able either to get her to confess the name of her lover, or reduce her to tears. “It’s not Matias, don’t blame him for this,” Ofelia repeated twenty times like a refrain. The priest was accustomed to hypnotizing his flock with fear, so this girl’s icy calm almost drove him out of his mind. It was past midnight by the time he had finished talking to the sinner’s parents and brother. He also questioned Juana, who was unable to clarify anything, because she had no idea who the mysterious lover might be. “It must be the Holy Spirit, Reverend,” she concluded slyly.

  Any idea of an abortion was dismissed out of hand by a scandalized Urbina. Not only was it a crime according to the law, but it was an abominable sin in the eyes of God, the one arbiter in matters of life and death. There were alternatives, which they could consider in the following days. What was most important was to keep the matter within the four walls of the house: no one was to find out, not even Ofelia’s sisters or her other brother, who fortunately was away measuring typhoons in the Caribbean. Rumors have wings, as Isidro rightly said; the main thing was to safeguard Ofelia’s reputation and the family’s honor. Urbina encouraged each of them with his advice: Isidro was to avoid violence, as that can have unfortunate consequences, and at that moment what was needed was extreme caution; Laura was to continue to pray and contribute to the church’s charitable works; Ofelia should repent and confess, because the flesh is weak, but God’s mercy is infinite. He took Felipe aside and told him he had to take the lead in this crisis, and that he should come to see him in his office; he had a plan.

  Father Urbina’s plan turned out to be extremely simple. Ofelia would spend the next few months far from Santiago, and then, when the size of her belly could no longer be hidden, she was to go to a convent, where she would be well looked after until she gave birth and would receive the spiritual aid she so desperately needed.

  “And then?” asked Felipe.

  “The boy or girl will be given in adoption to a good family. I personally will see to that. You must reassure your parents and sister and take care of the details. Of course, there will be some expenses…”

  Felipe promised he would see to everything and reward the nuns. He asked that, when the delivery date was close, permission be given to Aunt Teresa, a nun in a different order, to be with her niece.

  The months that followed in the family’s country property were a marathon of prayers, vows to the saints, penances, and acts of charity from Doña Laura, while Juana Nancucheo took charge of the domestic routine. She looked after Baby, who had regressed to the days of diapers and had to be fed a pap of mashed vegetables with a spoon, and kept her eye on the fallen girl, as she called Ofelia. Installed in their Santiago house, Isidro del Solar pretended to have forgotten the drama taking place far away among the womenfolk, certain that Felipe had taken the necessary steps to silence any gossip. He was more worried about the political situation, which could affect his businesses. The Right had been defeated in the elections, and the new Radical Party president apparently intended to continue with his predecessor’s reforms. Chile’s position in the Second World War was vitally important to Isidro, as his wool exports to Scotland and Germany, which continued via Sweden, depended on it. The Right defended neutrality—why commit yourself if you might get it wrong?—but the government and general public supported the Allies. If that support became policy, his sales to Germany would go to the devil, he kept telling himself.

  Ofelia managed to send Victor Dalmau a letter via the family chauffeur, before he was spectacularly sacked and she was sent off as a prisoner to the countryside. Juana, who detested the chauffeur, accused him without proof that she had seen him whispering with Ofelia. “I did tell you, patron, but you won’t listen. That oaf is the reason. It’s his fault niña Ofelia is pregnant.” The blood rushed to Isidro del Solar’s head so swiftly he thought his brain would explode. It was only natural that the boys in the family took advantage of the maids occasionally, but he couldn’t imagine his daughter doing the same with his pockmarked servant. He had a fleeting vision of his naked daughter in the arms of the chauffeur, that lowborn son of a bitch, in the room above the garage, and he almost passed out. He was enormously relieved when Juana explained that he was merely the go-between. Isidro summoned him to the library and shouted questions to get him to reveal the name of the man to blame; he threatened to have him arrested so that the police could beat and kick the truth out of him; when that had no effect, he tried to buy him off, but the man couldn’t tell him anything, because he had never seen Victor. All he could tell him were the times he’d left and picked up Ofelia from the
art school. Isidro realized that his daughter had never been to her classes; she had always gone from the school on foot or in a taxi to her lover’s arms. The blasted girl was less stupid than he had imagined, or lust had made her cunning.

  Ofelia’s letter contained the explanation she should have given Victor personally, but in the rare moments when she was able to call him, he didn’t answer at either his house or the Winnipeg. At their country estate she would be cut off from the outside world: the closest telephone was fifteen kilometers away. She wrote him the truth: that her passion had been like a drunken spree that had clouded her reason; that she now understood what he had always maintained—the obstacles keeping them apart were insurmountable. She admitted in a business-like fashion that in reality what she had felt was a loss of control of her feelings, rather than love; she had been swept away by the novelty of it, but couldn’t sacrifice her reputation and her life for him. She told him she would be going away on a trip with her mother for some time, and after that, when her mind had cleared, she would consider the possibility of going back to Matias. She ended the letter with a categorical farewell, and warned him not to try to communicate with her ever again.