Free The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende Page A

ever since he was a child: to have a cup of Viennese coffee. Through the windows of the Hotel Francés he had seen the waiters pass with trays held high above their heads on which lay these treasures: tall glass goblets crowned with towers of whipped cream and adorned with beautiful glazed maraschino cherries. The day of his first paycheck, he had crossed back and forth outside the establishment before getting up the courage to go through the door.
    Finally, beret in hand, he had stepped timidly across the threshold and entered the luxurious dining room, with its teardrop chandeliers and stylish furniture, convinced that everyone was staring at him, that their thousand eyes found his suit too tight and his shoes old. He sat down on the edge of the chair, his ears burning, and gave his order to the waiter with a mere thread of a voice. He waited impatiently, watching people come and go in the tall mirrors, tasting with anticipation that pleasure he had so often dreamed of. His Viennese coffee arrived, far more impressive than he had imagined—superb, delicious, and accompanied by three honey biscuits. He stared at it in fascination for a long while, until he finally dared to pick up the long-handled spoon and, with a sigh of ecstasy, plunge it into the cream. His mouth was watering. He wanted to make this moment last as long as possible, to stretch it all the way to infinity. He began to stir the spoon, observing the way the dark liquid of the cup slowly moved into the cream. He stirred and stirred and stirred . . . and suddenly the tip of the spoon knocked against the glass, opening a crack through which the coffee leapt, pouring onto his clothes. Horrified, Esteban watched the entire contents of the goblet spill onto his only suit before the amused glances of the occupants of the adjoining tables. Pale with frustration, he stood up and walked out of the Hotel Francés fifty centavos poorer, leaving a trail of Viennese coffee on the springy carpet. When he reached his house, he was soaked and furious, beside himself. When Férula found out what had happened, she told him acidly, “That’s what you get for spending Mama’s medicine money on your private little whims. God punished you.” At that moment Esteban saw clearly the ways his sister used to keep him down and how she managed to make him feel guilty. He understood that he would have to escape. As he made moves to get out from under her tutelage, Férula began to dislike him. His freedom to come and go stung her like a reproach, like an injustice. When he fell in love with Rosa and Férula saw how desperate he was, like a little boy begging for her help, needing her, following her around the house pleading with her to intercede on his behalf with the del Valle family, that she speak to Rosa, that she bribe Nana, she again felt important to her brother. For a time they seemed to have been reconciled. But that rapprochement did not last long, and Férula was quick to realize that she had been used. She was happy when she saw her brother leave for the mine. From the time he had begun to work, when he was fifteen, Esteban had supported the household and had promised always to do so, but for Férula that had not been enough. It bothered her to have to stay locked up within these walls that stank of medicine and age, to be kept awake at night by the moans of her sick mother, always attentive to the clock so as to administer each dose at the proper time, bored, tired, and unhappy while her brother had no taste of such obligations. Before him lay a destiny that was bright, free, and full of promise. He could marry, have children, know what love was. The day she sent the telegram telling him of Rosa’s death she had felt a strange shiver, almost of joy.
    â€œYou’ll have to work at something,” Férula repeated.
    â€œYou’ll never lack for anything so long as I live,” he said.
    â€œThat’s easy to