Saving the World by Julia Álvarez Page A

“The king himself will protect them, Doña Isabel! These children will become his special charge.” Don Francisco broke the seal and unrolled the scroll, scanning it for the appropriate passage. “These boys will be taken care of, fed, clothed, educated.”
    â€œWe are already providing all those services,” I reminded him. “But hand to mouth, day by day, always worrying about where the next funds will come from. I know how our charitable institutions are run. I myself have directed several hospitals here and in New Spain. The king is making these boys his special charge, as if they were his own sons!”
    â€œAt what cost to them?” I said sharply. “
If
they survive being infected—” Our visitor shook his head, smiling at my ignorance. “You don’t understand—”
    â€œOh, but I do understand!” In one quick motion, I lifted my mantilla and let it fall to my shoulders. I had thought to shock him but instead tears started in my eyes. Surely, he had imagined a different face from the grotesque one that now stared back at him.
    But his own face betrayed no disgust or aversion. He was, after all, a man of science, interested in specimens. “I can understand why you would fear for your charges,” he said quietly, rolling up the scroll as if admitting surrender.
    The tenderness in his voice touched me. He understood. I bowed my head, fighting tears.
    He was silent a moment. When he began speaking again, his voice was less insistent, as if he knew to tread gently on ground where many losses lay buried.
    â€œYours is precisely the fate we would be sparing so many from suffering. Four times I have traveled to New Spain, and each time I have seen suffering beyond my capacity to describe.” He bowed his head, as if now, he,too, struggled for self-control. “Entire villages. Whole populations decimated. The afflicted tearing down their own houses on top of themselves, their homes becoming their sepulchers.” His eyes glazed over. “You cannot imagine how powerless one feels. I am, after all, a doctor, my purpose is to heal.”
    My own losses seemed dwarfed by this dismal picture of universal misery.
    â€œThe natives in America have been especially susceptible, suffering a more virulent form of the smallpox than we.”
    Mamá, Papá, my sister were dead. Was that not virulence enough?
    â€œThe lucky ones who survive are so disfigured by the profound marks of the eruption, they horrify all who see them.”
    I, too, had seen those looks on faces. I, too, was one of those lucky ones.
    â€œHell will hold no surprises for me …” His voice trailed off.
    He would hardly be going there! A man so touched by the misfortunes of others. Already, in my own mind, I was defending him.
    He had been gazing absently at my face, but I saw him slowly return from the hell he had been describing. “Yours, Doña Isabel, if you will permit me to say so, yours was a kind pox.”
    A kind pox? Incredulity must have shown on my features.
    He was examining me now. I reached for my veil to cover myself, but when he lifted a hand as if to prevent me, I allowed the mantilla to drop back on my shoulders. “Your face was marked, not marred, Doña Isabel. Of course, any blemish on a handsome face saddens us. But consider this. Time would have accomplished over the course of the years what the smallpox razed in a fortnight. You were spared the slower loss.”
    â€œI see you are not just a surgeon but a philosopher!” I had to smile, in spite of myself. But I could tell by his sober look that he had not intended any humor.
    â€œThe consolations of philosophy are numerous,” he admitted, sighing. “But our losses must first be felt in the flesh. And I am imposing on you in a sad time, I can see.” He gestured toward my dark dress. “Perhaps I should return in the morrow?”
    I had already exposed my face,