When his wife, Gloria, had found out he was the father of the maid’s child, she’d demanded that the woman leave. “It’s me or her,” she’d told him. At first, he’d denied everything, saying people loved to gossip around here and she shouldn’t listen to that nonsense. He’d laughed the whole thing off. But Gloria didn’t speak to him in four weeks, and that drove him crazy, he wrote, so he’d acquiesced to her demands.
My father gave the maid a big sum of money and she left. Once in a while, he would receive letters, reports if you will, about Elisa’s well-being. What she was like, what was she doing. But these letters were sporadic, he said, because the maid didn’t know how to read and write and had to rely on others to write the letters for her. And then one day, the letters stopped coming.
Oh, Papá, what a mess you created!
Another sister. As if I didn’t have enough with three siblings. My mother must be turning over in her grave. I tried to recall the details of my father’s will. Nowhere in there had my father mentioned this Elisa. Neither did Aquilino. Did that mean that he’d forgotten her? Had she died? But if she was still alive, where was she?
The photograph of the little girl in Angélica’s room came to mind. Could she be Elisa?
The room had become stuffy and hot and I didn’t know if it was the climate or my father’s confession. All I knew was that I had to get out.
I stepped out of the study, crossed the patio, and left the hacienda through the kitchen door. It was such a relief to be outside, away from that confined space. My shirt was drenched in sweat and my arms covered with mosquito bites. I couldn’t stop scratching. I undid my tie, thinking about my father. Were all men like him? I didn’t think Cristóbal had ever been unfaithful to me. Had he? At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if some random child would show up claiming he was Cristóbal’s long-lost son.
Oddly, the thought didn’t horrify me. In fact, it might be good if he did have a child, being that I could never give him one. There would be something left of him in this world, something other than his old typewriter.
The moon looked sublime and it was so bright, it partially illuminated my path. I hiked for a long time, and the more I walked, the hotter I became. I could already hear the gurgle of the creek. I anticipated the cool water engulfing my feet and that vision gave me the strength to keep going.
When I arrived, I sat on one of the rocks, undid my shoelaces, and removed my shoes and socks. Under my bare feet, the heat appeared to be rising from the ground, like a coal stove. How could it be so hot at night? So hot and so humid? I submerged my feet in the water and my body temperature finally lowered down a few degrees.
Crickets chirped around me and an owl hooted. I was so uncomfortable with my back covered in sweat. I removed my tie and jacket.
In all this time, I hadn’t been outside my room without a jacket. What a relief! I longed for the cool water against my skin. Without giving it much thought, I shrugged off my vest and removed my trousers, too. Looking around, I unbuttoned my shirt. Who would be here at this time of the night anyway? It seemed safe enough and I desperately needed a fresh bath.
Before long, I’d removed all my clothes, my spectacles, and my beard and entered the water. It was the most pleasant sensation I’d had in weeks. Without the corset pressing against my chest, I was free. I wished I could stay here all night, swimming, relaxing, not having to think about who was hiding what and whom I could and couldn’t trust in this town.
It was exhausting.
Worse yet, the guilt of my deception grew exponentially as I got to know these people more intimately. Only one of them had most likely paid Franco to kill me, and yet, I was deceiving all of them. That, and the constant fear of getting caught, added to my distress, to my long nights of restlessness.
I must have spent an hour there, imagining what could’ve been had my father done things differently. By the time I got out of the water, my fingers had turned into prunes. I gathered all my clothes and got dressed. Obviously, my goatee wouldn’t attach itself to my wet chin, so I would have to run the risk of going home without facial hair. If needed, I could always say I’d shaved it off. But I really hoped it wouldn’t come to that; I was exposed without the beard.
The house was as still and dark as I’d left it and all the bedroom doors were shut. I quietly entered my room and locked the door. Nobody seemed to have noticed my absence.
*
In the morning, I joined the family for breakfast. I hadn’t seen Laurent since Bingo Night. I tried not to stare while he cut his cantaloupe, but I was drawn to him. He wasn’t feminine; just sophisticated. The details from the other night were fuzzy and I couldn’t recall what I’d heard in that room and what I’d imagined.