The House of Impossible Loves Read Online Free Page B

masking the smell of sheep and other odors exuded by the faithful as the sermon grew more heated, with its battles in far-off, crocodile-infested lands where the sun caused faith to boil. If anything was clear to the townspeople after those first few sermons, it was that this dark-eyed young man in the oversized cassock knew how to reach straight into the hearts of his listeners, though they understood not a word. His name was Juan Antonio Escabel de Castro, but they began to call him Padre Imperio, a name he bore proudly for the rest of his life.
    All of the commotion surrounding the priest’s arrival and his sermons deflected attention from the rekindled affair between Clara Laguna and the Andalusian. Whenever the old women saw him stride by, they gave only a moment’s thought to whether he could break the curse by marrying the Laguna girl and making her happy. Their minds immediately returned to Padre Imperio’s tropical crocodiles—no doubt the devil incarnate—devouring not only crabs but the fists and legs of Spaniards.
    One night when the landowner went to the tavern for dinner, La Colorá offered him only mushrooms sautéed with egg and had no more to say than “I guess we’ll see what you’re willing to give up for a pretty woman now.”
     
    Clara was one of very few women in town that fall of 1898 whose life was not affected by Padre Imperio’s sermons. Not exactly welcomed at church by the women in veils and mantillas, she and her mother did not go to Sunday Mass. Besides, the Laguna witch had taught her daughter that a cursed woman sets foot on hallowed ground only when the taste of death is on her lips. Clara, who barely believed in God, cared not at all. If she felt like praying, she would recite the only prayer she knew, wherever she was, to God or the town’s patron saint, Saint Pantolomina of the Flowers, a martyr with irises in her blond hair who was put to death by quartering.
    Clara’s relationship with the Andalusian kept her busy enough. They rode out through forests and flocks in between his hunts, making love wherever they chose. She adored the feeling of his hands, inhaling his persistent salty aroma in the yard surrounding the estate, under the pergola with the last of the roses. Late one afternoon, after their pleasure, he asked her why she never went to church to hear the priest’s sermons; though their meaning was somewhat obscure, they were fascinating nevertheless.
    “I can go with you this Sunday, if you like,” Clara replied, picturing herself walking into church in her Sunday best, her cursed arm entwined in his. She also imagined her dress was white and they were walking to the altar, where two rings and blessings awaited, her family’s curse barred at the door, shaking with fury.
    The Andalusian, who had pictured the same thing, minus the wedding, knew he had gone too far. It was one thing to be seen walking with Clara in the street or on horseback in the woods and hills, quite another to be seen taking her arm in church.
    “I think you should go with your mother.”
    “Yes, or maybe the best thing to do is not go at all, or go with whoever I want.”
    Clara walked away from him. A liquid cold surged through her bones as tears pricked like knives and the taste of blood filled her mouth, making her queasy. She recognized the symptoms her mother had described more than once: the symptoms of the curse, the first pain inflicted, announcing the corrosion of more to come.
     
    The next Sunday, as usual, neither Clara nor her mother went to church. However, at midday Padre Imperio himself appeared at their door. Slices of stale bread toasted in the fire along with a piece of tallow, some mandrake root, and a pot brewing toads to ward off evil eye. The priest pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against his nose and mouth.
    “Good Lord above! This house smells of witchcraft!”
    “What it smells of is breakfast and a poor home,” Clara’s mother replied.
    The priest, pale