“Why do you want that little knife, sis?”
“For some plants. I know there’s a gardener, you don’t have to tell me, but these are my plants. I like to work on them myself.”
The impending storm was suffocating: even Gaspar had lain down on the blanket and was staring up at the sky. Was that normal? I wondered. He pays such close attention to things. I distracted him, and Gaspar, who rarely got angry, seemed on the verge of tears. Nearby, the old dog Osman was panting. It was cruel to make him spend his final days in that Misiones heat.
I saw Stephen emerge from the house. He was so pale as he entered the little garden that I got scared. Juan is fine, he’s awake and alert, he said, and my shoulders relaxed. It’s my mother. She needs to see you, alone.
“This can’t be good, judging from your face.”
Gaspar put his arms around Stephen’s leg, and Stephen picked him up.
“Come on, let’s go see your dad.” And he added: “He doesn’t need oxygen anymore; Gaspar won’t get scared.”
They were waiting for me in the first-floor room where they always met. The wooden staircase creaked and the carpet was very damp. I didn’t want to go in nervous, so I dawdled a little looking at my father’s paintings. The one by Cándido López, so beautiful, was starting to crack. I’d have to take it with me one day, steal it and give it to a museum. He wouldn’t notice. I went a little warily into the room where Florence, Anne, and my mother were waiting. The three of them all together was always a reason to distrust. What was that poem Juan had read me a few days ago? “One is a harlot, and one a child That never looked upon man with desire, And one it may be a queen.”
Florence greeted me with a kiss and smoothed my hair. Her hands smelled like Tiger Balm and the bracelets on her wrists tinkled. Mercedes looked me up and down: possessiveness mixed with mockery. The same way she had always looked at me.
“My dear, this is a wonderful day,” Florence said as she opened a bottle of wine. A Leroy. The smell of Burgundy filled the room. Florence’s unchecked joy tended to augur bad news. I was especially annoyed that she was celebrating whatever this was while Juan, in the room downstairs, was suffering the Ceremonial’s ravages on his body. She rattled on, peppering her Spanish with English.
“I couldn’t wait, dear. Juan should be here, I know, but it wouldn’t be right to give him the news in his condition, it might upset him. I’ll wait until he’s stronger. We owe him so much; we owe him everything. My darling, we now know how to keep consciousness alive. The words were so clear. I heard them too. The gods have dictated the Rite for the medium and his recipient. The medium will transfer his consciousness into the body of his son. The continuity of life will be given to them, first, and then our turn will come. What we mean to say—I’m so excited, it’s hard to find the words—is that the Rite is complete. The details of its execution have been given to us. First for the two of them, then for others. You can consult them yourself.”
I went over to the pages open on the table beside the window. I was too dizzy to read, but I pretended. Of course, this was not the actual Book, which was kept in London. There were copies, whose location no one in the Order knew, not even me. The symbols I read were drawn in Anne’s elegant hand.
When I had finished turning pages and faced them again, the three of them toasted. I had left my glass on the table, and I forced myself to drink. I felt blood rush to my head and my body turn cold, and the dizziness made me stumble. This was it? This was how it happened? There would be no thunderclaps, no sign in the heavens? No great speeches for the Initiates from a pulpit in the jungle? They weren’t going to gather for a festival that would last for days in London, or on the estate in the pampa, or on Mediterranean shores? Just this celebration of old ladies in a stifling room? I would have to spend eternal life with them?
Did I want that?
“Oh, she’s in shock,” said Florence. And she lit a cigar like a man celebrating his firstborn son.
They were euphoric, their vulgar faces reddened by wine. My mother, her gray hair ever more sparse, spoke.
“If Gaspar is not a medium capable of continuing his father’s work, it doesn’t matter anymore. If he didn’t inherit the gift, he is of no interest to us. But in a way, he is the gift himself! The Darkness said that consciousness is preserved by moving it into another body. We knew that. Now it has told us that the medium can continue indefinitely. That is what the Darkness desires, of course. And your son will be his Recipient.”
“I got it, Mercedes.” I tried to make the annoyance clear in my voice, but I didn’t want to insult her. Certainly, I detested her way of always repeating Florence’s explanations, as if her clarifications were necessary. The Recipient. That’s what they called him. Like a bucket. Gaspar’s body would receive Juan’s consciousness. They knew how to do it. I tried not to cry, not in front of them. I spoke, and my voice didn’t shake.
“And when will that transfer be possible? When will Juan have to leave his body and move into our son’s?”
Florence frowned. She hadn’t liked that I said “Juan” and “our son.” It made her doubt. Can she possibly expect me not to resist? I wondered. To let my baby go so easily, and to lose my man as well? Because, of course, I would not be the partner of someone occupying my son’s body! Even if that someone was Juan. But these three would not brook a conversation in those terms. In these formal talks, distance and precise terminology were required. I knew I should have said “the medium” and “the Recipient,” but I didn’t care if they could intuit my unease. Love is impure, that’s what Anne’s eyes were saying. And it was true. It contaminates you and makes you possessive, savage, destructive. Florence had once told me: We love our children and our partners until we must let them go. The sacrifice for something greater demands that we remain detached.
“Not immediately, we’ll have to wait. The boy must be twelve years old. That is the age indicated by the Darkness.”
“Are you going to try with others, first?”
“The attempt has not been forbidden us.”
“You won’t lack candidates,” I said.
“Your son is the continuation,” they repeated. “You can go on living the normal life we promised until the moment comes. The Rite will be held in ten years. The medium and the Recipient must be preserved with life for ten years.”
“I want you to demand less of the medium, then. If you want him to live for another ten years, you’ll have to space out the Ceremonials even more. You had to resuscitate him yesterday. Jorge is planning more surgeries. He can’t keep that up for so long. We have already talked about this too many times.”
“My agreement with the medium can be renegotiated. The Ceremonials are already held when he wants to do them. I’m not going to go to war when there is good news. We’re all a little worked up. The important thing is that we can go on. Be happy, dear. Your family will be the one to bring the future.”
I finished the wine in several sips and asked permission to go outside to think. Of course, Florence said. We understand. It’s so much responsibility! Today, no one in the world is more important than you. Of course you need to be alone.