little expense. The bull was meek, tall as a cathedral, patriarchal; a sturdy and baroque structure festooned with folds and cascading muscles. In the paddock, it looked spectacular.
“A miracle of nature,” commented J.
“…and a complete waste of money,” snapped Elena.
The easing of the rains brought about a change in Elena’s mood. Her bitter silences gave way to a biting sarcasm that became her habitual tone even in moments of affection. In addition to running the shop and using the sewing machine—to make curtains, blankets, sheets—and fastidiously supervising domestic arrangements, she now went for long dips in the sea. She would usually set off at 11 a.m. with a towel over her shoulder and a bottle of suntan lotion and return shortly before noon. She would regularly complain to J. that the local black men frequently ambled closer to where she was sunbathing so they could stare at her.
Mercedes was expected to keep a lookout for Elena so she could serve lunch promptly. If it was not on the table when Elena arrived home, she would rudely take Mercedesto task. This brusqueness in the way she treated people became routine, and over time it got worse. Gilberto had already complained to J. about Elena’s offensive way of speaking to his wife.
“She can talk to me how she likes,
jefe
, I don’t care,” he said, “but my wife is a timid soul and all this criticism just upsets her.”
J. had little time for Gilberto’s wife, and in fact often shared Elena’s view that she was lazy and useless. But he was afraid of losing Gilberto, a diligent and enthusiastic worker who took charge of every problem on the
finca
as though it were his own.
One day, Elena came back from her swim to find lunch was not waiting on the table.
“I’ve had a temperature,
seño
,” said Mercedes, who was holding a cold compress to her forehead and genuinely looked ill.
“Temperature or no temperature, people in this house still need to eat,” snapped Elena. She felt so angry that the words got muddled in her head.
“But
seño
…”
“But nothing! I won’t have people in this house going hungry every time you decide to play the invalid. Now get cooking,
hermana
, that’s what we pay you for!”
J. arrived home to find Elena stony-faced and Mercedes wailing in the kitchen, the damp cloth still pressed to her forehead.
He flew into a rage. “Can you for God’s sake stop behaving like a lady of the manor?” he roared, without waiting for Elena to explain.
Elena was taken aback. This was the first time since they had met that she had ever seen him truly angry. And when J. went on shouting, she got angry too; she hurled herself at him and slapped his face. He grabbed her wrists and with a powerful jerk sent her sprawling out into the corridor. Elena made no attempt to get up, and simply lay there weeping bitterly.
J. stormed out of the house.
17
T HE RECONCILIATION was no easy matter. When J. returned that night, Elena’s face was frozen in a mask of cold contempt. Silently, they undressed and went to bed, each careful to avoid any physical contact with the other. When J.’s elbow accidently grazed her, Elena flinched as though he had burned her with a cigarette; she retreated to the edge of the bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
J. stayed awake for a while and tried to read. “Don’t let them get your hopes up,” the poet says, “Today is all there is/Let pious people suffer/Life’s all earth has to offer/There’s no life after this”—but he could not concentrate. It was a long night. He closed the book, snuffed out the candle, and darkness, gentle and implacable, seeped into the room. The rising roar of the sea stole in, the sounds—and the silence—of the nearby forest; he could hear the barking of far-off dogs.
J. went out onto the veranda in his shorts. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and cloudless. He settled himself comfortably in the wicker rocking chair Doña Rosa had sold
“A miracle of nature,” commented J.
“…and a complete waste of money,” snapped Elena.
The easing of the rains brought about a change in Elena’s mood. Her bitter silences gave way to a biting sarcasm that became her habitual tone even in moments of affection. In addition to running the shop and using the sewing machine—to make curtains, blankets, sheets—and fastidiously supervising domestic arrangements, she now went for long dips in the sea. She would usually set off at 11 a.m. with a towel over her shoulder and a bottle of suntan lotion and return shortly before noon. She would regularly complain to J. that the local black men frequently ambled closer to where she was sunbathing so they could stare at her.
Mercedes was expected to keep a lookout for Elena so she could serve lunch promptly. If it was not on the table when Elena arrived home, she would rudely take Mercedesto task. This brusqueness in the way she treated people became routine, and over time it got worse. Gilberto had already complained to J. about Elena’s offensive way of speaking to his wife.
“She can talk to me how she likes,
jefe
, I don’t care,” he said, “but my wife is a timid soul and all this criticism just upsets her.”
J. had little time for Gilberto’s wife, and in fact often shared Elena’s view that she was lazy and useless. But he was afraid of losing Gilberto, a diligent and enthusiastic worker who took charge of every problem on the
finca
as though it were his own.
One day, Elena came back from her swim to find lunch was not waiting on the table.
“I’ve had a temperature,
seño
,” said Mercedes, who was holding a cold compress to her forehead and genuinely looked ill.
“Temperature or no temperature, people in this house still need to eat,” snapped Elena. She felt so angry that the words got muddled in her head.
“But
seño
…”
“But nothing! I won’t have people in this house going hungry every time you decide to play the invalid. Now get cooking,
hermana
, that’s what we pay you for!”
J. arrived home to find Elena stony-faced and Mercedes wailing in the kitchen, the damp cloth still pressed to her forehead.
He flew into a rage. “Can you for God’s sake stop behaving like a lady of the manor?” he roared, without waiting for Elena to explain.
Elena was taken aback. This was the first time since they had met that she had ever seen him truly angry. And when J. went on shouting, she got angry too; she hurled herself at him and slapped his face. He grabbed her wrists and with a powerful jerk sent her sprawling out into the corridor. Elena made no attempt to get up, and simply lay there weeping bitterly.
J. stormed out of the house.
17
T HE RECONCILIATION was no easy matter. When J. returned that night, Elena’s face was frozen in a mask of cold contempt. Silently, they undressed and went to bed, each careful to avoid any physical contact with the other. When J.’s elbow accidently grazed her, Elena flinched as though he had burned her with a cigarette; she retreated to the edge of the bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
J. stayed awake for a while and tried to read. “Don’t let them get your hopes up,” the poet says, “Today is all there is/Let pious people suffer/Life’s all earth has to offer/There’s no life after this”—but he could not concentrate. It was a long night. He closed the book, snuffed out the candle, and darkness, gentle and implacable, seeped into the room. The rising roar of the sea stole in, the sounds—and the silence—of the nearby forest; he could hear the barking of far-off dogs.
J. went out onto the veranda in his shorts. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and cloudless. He settled himself comfortably in the wicker rocking chair Doña Rosa had sold
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