“I think she likes you, too.”
After a moment, Lola slid away from us and hid behind a rock in the corner of the box. Juan helped me stand and dropped my hand.
“You look different today,” he said.
“Different, how?”
“I don’t know. Older.”
I refrained from smiling. I so wanted him to touch my hand again. Or even . . .
As if reading my mind, he leaned over and brushed his lips against mine. His kiss was so unexpected I remained stiff. I’d never had another face this close to mine before and I did my best not to bump my nose with his. Maybe I should close my eyes? That was what the heroines in those novels my mother hid under the mattress always did. When I closed my eyes, something weird happened. Juan inserted his tongue inside my mouth. It was warm and wet. I panicked and pushed him back. What kind of kiss was this? What did the tongue have to do with anything? The books didn’t talk about tongues.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No, don’t apologize. I . . . I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“I have to go,” he said. “My father wanted me to help him with something.”
I knew he was lying. The entire town knew his father had only one obsession in life: chess. He’d given up on everything else a long time ago: his work, his family, or any activity outside staring at his chess board and studying every move and book on the subject he could get his hands on.
I didn’t say this, of course, I would rather die than embarrass Juan—I loved him so. I wanted him to kiss me again. I would even take his tongue inside my mouth if it meant he wouldn’t leave.
But the magic was over.
He was about to say something else, but instead, he picked up his box and walked away.
What was I supposed to do now with this grasshopper jumping up and down in my stomach? I could barely suppress my own desire to jump and scream myself. I never thought Juan liked me this way. From now on, I would always wear this dress. He said I looked older in it.
I stared after him as he walked away with the snake.
CHAPTER 15
Puri
April 1920
If you saw Soledad Duarte from a distance you wouldn’t think there was anything wrong with her. She must have been beautiful once with that abundant, wavy mane. But up close, you would notice a thick scar starting on her throat, across her collarbone, and continuing into the neckline of her blouse. As you glanced up immediately—to avoid being rude—you might notice her angular eyebrows, which appeared to be painted with a fine brush, and you would also see that despite her confident stance, there was a frailty about her, as if the mere act of breathing took an extraordinary effort.
Her house, if you could call it that considering there was only one room, was made entirely out of reed. The place looked more like a storage room than a home, but after I’d knocked on her door and requested her professional services as a healer, she led me into a clear corner of the room with a table and two chairs.
I sat in front of the curandera. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to tell her but figured that by offering to pay for her services, she would be more willing to talk to me. Now, how was I going to deceive a healer into believing I was a man? And how did I turn the subject to her son?
“You’re not from here?” she asked in a kind voice.
“No,” I said.
“What brings you to these lands?”
“Well,” I said in a low pitch. “I’m a writer and I came here to do some research for my novel.” I purposely spoke slowly in an effort to keep my voice at the bottom of my range.
She smiled. “And you need a curandera for that?”
“No,” I said. “I came to see you for something else. A more personal reason.” I’d once heard that the best way to deceive someone was to say a partial truth. “I’ve been suffering from melancholia. I don’t have any enthusiasm to do the things I used to find enjoyable. Sometimes I have to force myself to get out of bed every morning.”
She studied me carefully. “Yes, there is a sadness about you. I noticed it the minute you walked in. Did you lose someone close?”
Cristóbal’s shocked face seconds before falling off the stern flashed through my mind.
“Yes.”
She nodded, lighting a candle on the table.
Why did I have this sudden urge to cry? Right here, in front of this stranger? And the mother of Cristóbal’s assassin, at that. Her soothing voice, her compassionate expression, her delicate hands—every part of her urged me to open up. It wasn’t just about Cristóbal and his horrendous demise, it was also the fact that I was so far from my home, so lonely. If at least I’d had the child I’d always wanted, someone who would be with me always. Under different circumstances, I might have asked this woman to help me become a mother.