Free The House of Impossible Loves by Cristina López Barrio Page B

more than one occasion. The townspeople, who had adored him from the very first day, began to look at him with suspicion. After all, he was a man under that cassock, a young man just turned thirty. The rumors only intensified when the Laguna witch was buried in the cemetery of cypress trees and magpies one morning. Clara attended with the girls from Scarlet Manor, Padre Imperio officiating in Latin with his holy water. But not one local came, even though the old woman had read their futures in the bones of the cat, repaired their daughters’ hymens, and cured their evil eye for years. They wondered why that Laguna—who had never set foot in church until the hour of her death, a witch of all things—should be given a Christian burial. They wondered whether the daughter had asked, and the priest could not refuse. Padre Imperio, however, was simply complying with the deceased’s wishes. “Give me my last rites,” she had said, “then bury me in hallowed ground so I can rot in peace.”
    When earth covered the coffin, Padre Imperio offered Clara his sympathies. He took her hand and shook it. She felt her skin grow warm. They both blushed.
    “Don’t come back to Scarlet Manor, Padre. People talk in this town. I’ll have Bernarda bring your mule back tomorrow.”
    “Close your business. Bring your daughter to be baptized and come to church on Sundays.”
    “I already told you: I’m committed to my revenge, my abandonment.”
    “And I told you I will do whatever it takes to save you.”
    “Save yourself, Padre. You need it more than I. Just leave me be.”
    Clara Laguna walked down the path past headstones and crosses, in tears, determined to never see Padre Imperio again.
     
    On orders from her mistress, Bernarda carried the blackened pots, the thread for repairing hymens, the sack containing the bones of a cat, and jars of magic ingredients up to the attic. The townspeople and brothel girls forgot all about them as layers of dust grew on top of Clara’s mother’s possessions. They forgot, too, about the investigation into the death of the Laguna witch after the Civil Guard tried for weeks to find out who was driving the cart that hit her, without any luck. But Clara was never able to forget her mother’s things or the night she was killed. From then on, she dedicated herself to the brothel and awaiting her lover’s return. She arranged the girls’ amorous encounters, looked after distinguished clients waiting in the parlor, offering red wine and games of hearts, and supervised Bernarda’s dinners. By now the only clients she allowed into her canopy bed were the elite sent by the baritone—for they demanded the charms of the prostitute with the golden eyes—or any man whose features or smell reminded her of the Andalusian.
    Clara tried not to think about Padre Imperio. Whispers about his visits to Scarlet Manor and what happened the day the Laguna witch was killed died down after consecutive Sundays, when the priest recaptured the hearts of his parishioners. The old women in black veils lining the pews still did not understand his sermons, in which pastors set off for hills in search of sheep to be saved from wolves. And yet such verbiage, fired up by faith, always made their eyes brim with tears. The congregation quivered as they followed that flock, eating dry bread and cheese, tormented by lightning, shivering from cold and the tricks beasts played, forging through undergrowth that burned in fiery flames. The censer swung from side to side, Sunday after Sunday, its sweet smell impregnating the old women’s veils, the rich women’s lace mantillas. After Mass they murmured, “He wouldn’t have left his mule in plain sight if he’d been doing anything wrong. Surely he would have hidden it. He was demanding she close the brothel, but she refused—that’s how brazen the cursed Laguna is.”
     
    Clara bought a dapple-gray horse and cart she used to ride into town. Whenever she and Padre Imperio crossed