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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781416592150 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Atria Books |
| Publication date: | 02/05/2008 |
| Series: | Atria Espanol |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Sales rank: | 370,175 |
| File size: | 248 KB |
| Language: | Spanish |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
From People Like Us
Gold is cash and love is a worthless check.
Ana Laura and I decided to spend part of the winter in the mountains. After weighing all the possibilities, we were leaning toward renting a house. Although we wouldn't have the conveniences of a hotel, we wouldn't have the inconveniences either, and it would cost about a third as much.
Besides, we would have the peace and quiet we both needed to be able to work. Ana Laura had to correct six texts that her editor was to publish in February and I had to finish more than twelve stories, which I had started some time ago and which would serve to pay a good portion of my not-unsubstantial debts.
So that's what we ended up doing. We loaded my tiny car with food and equipment for our pending work and then set off for our temporary paradise on earth.
The route to the mountains was rife with splendid aromas and scenes. The birds were singing as if it were the last day of their lives, and the painting that nature was unfolding impressed us beyond measure.
We stopped at a scenic overlook along the highway to better appreciate the countryside.
Although many of the trees were leafless, others still glowed a stunning dark green. The ground was carpeted with leaves, forming a mosaic in several shades of brown. In the distance, the tallest peaks were enveloped in snow and clouds that seemed to kiss them.
The air was cold, but pleasant.
We smoked a cigarette in silence as we contemplated the landscape.
"Which way is the house?" asked Ana Laura.
I thought a moment and then pointed to a spot between two low mountains. "Over there," I replied.
Her gaze followed my finger to the horizon.
"Okay then, let's go. This is beautiful, but I wouldn't want to spend the night here."
We got back in the Volkswagen, which soon began to show signs of fatigue as we started the steepest part of the ascent, but German technology ultimately prevailed and the small car successfully scaled the slopes.
We finally arrived at the house around six o'clock, and by then it was much colder.
The house was a real icebox and felt even colder than outside, but the fireplace was stacked with dry wood and it didn't take us long to get a good fire going.
We huddled in front of the flames until our bones warmed up again. Then we made several trips to the car to get our bags, Ana Laura's laptop, and my word processor.
Once this was done, we set about inspecting the house.
It was a small structure, fairly old, but immaculately maintained. There was a pleasant living room, a dining room, a big kitchen -- which seemed overly large for the tiny house -- and a very cozy bedroom with another fireplace, which Ana Laura immediately lit.
We poured ourselves drinks and ate cheese and pâté. After eating, we unpacked, stoked the fireplaces, and went to bed. The drive had been tiring, not just for the Volkswagen, but for us too, and the cold made us burrow under the heavy down comforter.
The next day we each began our respective work. The mountain air made me feel wonderful and I finished a story that I'd been stuck on for six months. Ana Laura, on the other hand, worked for a few hours and then started poking around the house. By five o'clock she had already drunk more than half a bottle of vodka. At eight I had to carry her to bed, because she had fallen asleep in front of the fire.
Several days passed in similar fashion. Since she wasn't drunk all the time, Ana Laura soon realized that it had been a mistake for us to cloister ourselves in such a remote part of the world. The poor woman couldn't work and went out for long walks in the forest. She took the car to town several times to buy groceries -- and vodka. Meanwhile, I quickly finished one story after another. I felt like a freshly uncorked bottle of sparkling wine, and sentence after sentence bubbled out with an ease I had never known before.
Ana Laura's laptop remained solitary and inactive, as if it were nothing more than a prop.
I knew very well that Ana Laura was dying to go back to the city or someplace more lively, but she didn't say a word. She wore her boredom stoically.
One afternoon, at the height of her boredom, she discovered a door to the attic. It had been sealed, but no seal can withstand feminine curiosity, and Ana Laura launched an exploration of the space, with the aid of a flashlight she brought in from the car.
At dinnertime she showed me something interesting that she had found earlier that afternoon. It was an old notebook with drawings of the house we were occupying, and it showed in precise sequence how it had been built, from the empty lot to the completed structure. There were details on the foundation, the construction of the walls, even the roof.
Each drawing carried a date at the bottom of the page. The house had been completed over a century ago.
"What do you think?" Ana Laura asked as she closed the notebook.
"Excellent artist."
We didn't talk about it any more that night.
From that point on, my girlfriend's boredom completely disappeared. She spent the days studying the drawings in the old notebook. She seemed hypnotized by them and spent hours poring over each one, as if it were from a collection of old Flemish masters. Ana Laura stopped drinking vodka and walking in the woods and hardly ate anything. It was almost as if she were under a spell of some kind.
The third day after her find in the attic, she interrupted my work. "Look at this!"
She indicated a particular portion of a drawing. I had no idea what she was trying to show me. "What is it?"
"It looks like some sort of cellar."
Sure enough, the drawing indicated a large opening right beneath the kitchen floor. "It's probably just a cistern," I said, trying to get back to work.
"I don't think so," she insisted. "There's plenty of water around here. And besides, there's a well a few yards from the house. Why build a cistern? There's something else," she added, slightly raising one of her beautiful eyebrows. "I already examined the kitchen floor and there's no opening."
"So?" I asked disinterestedly as I lit a cigarette.
"It could be a secret hiding place. Maybe there's treasure inside. Can you imagine?"
By now my rhythm had been totally broken, so I began to pay closer attention to what my beautiful companion was suggesting.
"You said there's no opening in the kitchen floor?"
"Look for yourself."
I went into the kitchen with the open notebook in my hands and stood over where I figured the hole should be.
There was nothing. But I did notice the stone floor covering the kitchen floor was not the same as in the drawing of the half-completed house.
This stuff looked newer.
"It's not the same floor," I said, looking distractedly at the tips of my boots.
Ana Laura seemed disappointed when she saw what I meant.
Just to make my lady happy, I tapped all over the kitchen floor with the heels of my boots. It was as solid as a rock.
"Look, Ana Laura, it must have been some sort of storage cellar. There was probably no need for it anymore, and when they changed the kitchen floor, the new owners simply filled in the hole."
"I guess you're right, but it was an interesting idea, wasn't it?" She had the look of a little girl who had been scolded.
The next morning, I found Ana Laura lying on the kitchen floor, inspecting it inch by inch.
I had other things to do, so I didn't pay any attention. If she wanted to spend the day searching for clues to a nonexistent treasure, that was her choice. I was going to get my work done.
Next time I looked, I saw she'd given up her scrutiny of the kitchen floor and gone back up to the attic.
A few hours later she came down covered with dust and carrying a roll of very old paper.
Without saying a word she unrolled it in front of me, covering my word processor.
It was a well-designed construction project. Drawn in sepia ink, it appeared to be the original plan for the house. There was no doubt that it was the work of a consummate artist.
And there it was again -- the cellar beneath the kitchen, clearly delineated with a dotted line, which indicated that it was underground.
Now I had to take Ana Laura seriously.
If it were some sort of storage space and had been sealed, we wouldn't lose anything by looking around a little, if only to please Ana Laura.
The next day we went into town. There was no office for the regulation or registration of private construction projects, but we were told that we could find information on local buildings at the public library.
The matronly woman who attended us in the library was colder than the morning, and it took several minutes to convince her we weren't planning to rob the place. Finally, after glaring at us fixedly, she led us to the reading room, ordering us to sit down and indicating that we were to remain silent by putting a finger to her lips. Neither Ana Laura nor I had said a word, but the ugly harpy seemed to enjoy treating us like a couple of schoolkids.
She disappeared for what seemed like an eternity and then reappeared carrying a very large book and two other smaller volumes, all quite old.
She opened the large book on one of the tables and wordlessly signaled that it contained what she thought we were looking for. Then, speaking in a very low voice -- which was ridiculous, because there was no one else in the room -- she told us that we would find additional information in the two smaller books. She warned us to be careful with the material, since it was very valuable. She returned after a few minutes to stare at us again, and finally disappeared in the direction of her desk.
Laughing, Ana Laura turned to look at me and whispered, "You better behave yourself if you don't want the teacher to expel you from school."
I had to control myself to keep from laughing out loud. Not that the joke was so funny, but the tension in that place made it seem hilarious.
Stifling our laughter, we began looking through the large volume. It had no title but contained copies of sketches from various construction projects, both in town and in the outlying areas. The drawings were accompanied by brief descriptions of the projects and sets of plans.
We found our house on one of the center pages. The drawing was identical to the one Ana Laura had found in the attic. It looked like a photocopy.
The description of the house didn't give any new information but merely provided technical details.
We looked at several similar projects, and none had a cellar.
Ana Laura interrupted my musing. "If it's an ordinary building, why is it included in the town's book?"
Without waiting for a response, which would have consisted of an impotent shrugging of my shoulders, she began leafing through one of the smaller tomes. I did the same with the other one.
The book I was looking at described several homes in the area along with their histories.
The house that we were occupying had the unique characteristic of having been designed and drawn by a prodigal son of the region, who had been an exquisite and impeccable artist.
"Look at this!" shouted Ana Laura.
I barely had a chance to look at the book when a chilling voice sounded, causing the hair on my neck to stand on end.
"If you don't intend to keep quiet, you'd better leave."
It was the librarian. She was visibly upset and threatened us with a long, crooked index finger.
"Please excuse us," said Ana Laura, in a very low, sweet voice.
"That's the last warning. Next time, we will be forced to suspend your privileges."
The old witch spoke in the plural, as if we were in the main branch of the New York Public Library and not in a little hole in some remote corner of the mountains.
Fortunately she returned to her desk and Ana Laura pointed with a manicured finger to the section of the book that she had been reading.
It described the construction of the foundation of our house, focusing principally on its design. It seemed that the owner of the house had hired the best architect in the area to design a hiding place. Not a simple basement, rather a carefully planned refuge in which the owner could protect himself in case of war.
So that was what made the house special and why it was listed in the books.
Ana Laura politely asked the librarian if we could make photocopies of the plans and drawings, but the witch vehemently refused, arguing that the copying machine was for the exclusive use of the library and not for "rowdy tourists."
"Could you lend us the book then to make copies somewhere else?" she asked.
"Certainly not!" she exclaimed loftily. She would never place the village's treasures in the hands of people like us!
"What do you suggest then?" I asked, amused, recalling my high school days.
"I suggest that you leave. You are not welcome here."
Saying this, she grabbed the three books and proceeded to put them back on the shelves, effectively ending the conversation.
Once we were back in the street, the cold air hit us with such force that we sought refuge in a café.
A string of bells rang as we opened the door, and the scent of fresh-baked bread and coffee comfortingly enveloped us. A cozy fire burned in a fireplace along one wall.
An obese old man, wearing a large white apron and with a kind face, approached to take our order. His face -- especially his nose -- showed signs of a long, useless battle against alcohol abuse, but he was very attentive and agreeable.
We ordered coffee and a couple of brandies -- to warm up.
Only two other tables were occupied, and a solitary man smoked a pipe at the bar in front of a steaming cup of coffee.
The fat man brought over what we had ordered. "Tourists?" he asked with a scratchy voice.
After the experience we had suffered in the library, I hesitated to respond.
"We rented a house outside of town. We're actually here to work. We're writers." Ana Laura had spoken and was now flashing one of her adorable smiles.
The man smiled back warmly, exposing a large, black space where there had once been teeth.
"Welcome!" he exclaimed. Without another word he went back behind the bar and began polishing an interminable supply of glasses and cups.
Like the sugar in our coffee, his behavior rapidly dissipated the bitterness caused by the librarian. After a few minutes, we ordered more brandy. The coffee was very strong, but delicious.
The smiling man served us again. "These are on the house," he said, helping himself to a glass too.
Ana Laura invited him to sit with us, and he eagerly accepted.
His name was Guillermo.
"Which house is it that you rented?" he asked after a few minutes of chatting.
We described the house.
"Ah! The Bernabeu house."
"Do you know it?" asked Ana Laura, with a childlike smile of surprise.
"Everyone in town knows it. My father used to say that the owner was a half-crazy Frenchman. He spent his life worrying about wars and invasions. . . ."
He took a sip of his brandy and, after wiping his lips on the back of his hand, continued. "They say he was obsessed with war. He hired one of our best boys to make him a house with a hiding place. He said they weren't going to get him so easily."
Just then, one of the townspeople called out to the barman, demanding to be served.
"I'll be right back," he said, flooding the air with the dense smell of alcohol.
A few minutes later he returned to our table but didn't sit down. Instead, he crossed his arms and asked, "What were we talking about?"
"You were saying that Bernabeu was obsessed with war," replied Ana Laura, interestedly.
"Ah! Yes! And invasions! It seems that his grandfather had served in Napoleon's army and must have told the poor boy too many awful stories about the war when he was a child."
"But, if everyone knew that he had a hiding place, that didn't give him any advantage, did it?" asked Ana Laura.
Guillermo put his index finger to his temple and made a few circling motions, indicating craziness.
"What happened to him?" I asked.
"To Bernabeu? No one knows for sure. I think after he finished the house he got married and left town."
"Has anyone been in the hiding place?" demanded Laura.
"No one. After the Frenchman left and before the town took over the abandoned house, a lot of curious folks tried to figure out how to get into the cellar. I guess they thought there was something of value down there. But it seems that Bernabeu did a good job. No one has been able to find a way in."
The man went back behind the bar and resumed his polishing.
We remained silent for a few minutes.
"We have to get into that cellar. There must be something there," said Ana Laura.
"Take it easy, my dear. Before we destroy the house, we should look for an entrance to the hiding place. There must be one," I said, hardly convinced.
We paid our bill and went out into the cold street again.
Once in the car, we headed back to the house in silence. The tale of the paranoid Bernabeu stayed on my mind, and I thought I might be able to write a good story about it. Or better still, if we were somehow able to get into the cellar, a story wouldn't be enough. More likely a novel, no matter what we actually found there. What else is a writer's imagination for?
Maybe there wasn't anything of value buried there, but, if I could write an interesting novel, that might turn out to be a small treasure in itself.
The house was very cold when we arrived, and Ana Laura stoked the fires in both fireplaces.
Although it was still early, the brandy had made us quite warm, and so we had several glasses of vodka before sprawling out on the sofa in front of the fireplace in the living room. We watched the flames devour the dry wood for a long time.
"What do you think we should do?" Ana Laura said after a while.
"We could look for some kind of access to the cellar, if it still exists."
She rewarded me with the best smile in her repertoire and replied, "Let's get to work."
Finishing off the rest of the vodka in our glasses, we divided up the labor.
I was to explore the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom; Ana Laura, the living room, the dining room, and, just in case, the attic.
We spent hours searching every corner, every nook. If someone had been watching us, he would have thought that we were completely insane, or else that we were rehearsing an Ionesco play.
We crawled on the floor like cockroaches. We took pictures and mirrors off the walls. We felt every orifice and every panel of wood looking for buttons and trick levers.
Nothing.
By seven o'clock we were completely exhausted and starving. We hadn't discovered anything more substantial than a few spiderwebs and a lot of dust.
The air was filled with a sense of failure and disillusion.
We ate a dinner of cold turkey and drank a bottle of white wine. We stoked the fires again and went to bed.
We weren't in a mood conducive to sexual activity and were both soon profoundly asleep.
. . . I was in Bernabeu's hiding place. It was a small but well-organized room. I saw several large cushions, some blankets, and cans of food piled on the floor. Two small containers, about five gallons each, held water. Farther back there were several boxes containing dried meats, crackers, jars of conserved fruits, and a burlap bag filled with walnuts, another filled with hazelnuts, and another filled with pine nuts.
I walked around the room, and, although it was completely dark, I could see everything clearly. The place was very tidy, as if someone had just cleaned it. On top of a wooden box of dried fish there was a sepia photograph. I took it in my hands. It was very old and showed a newly married couple posing soberly for the camera. When I looked more carefully, I couldn't help being alarmed. It was a photograph of Ana Laura and me! . . .
I awakened drenched with sweat. It took two minutes to convince myself that it had just been a dream -- a nightmare -- produced by the obsessive search we had carried out the previous afternoon.
I went to the kitchen, turned on the light, and lit a cigarette. The bottle of vodka was within reach, so I helped myself to a drink.
Ana Laura and I were obsessing, that was all. If there was a cellar, it had simply been sealed off long ago. Period. I had no reason to keep following my beautiful companion's quest. The subject was closed.
The next day I would clear it up with Ana Laura and get back to work. Back to what would feed me and pay for my share of this house. Bernabeu and his damned paranoia could just go to hell.
I didn't need any more nightmares like that one. . . .
Suddenly I heard a noise. I froze. Not only could I hear but I could feel footsteps approaching.
For a moment I ceased breathing and my heart stopped. The glass of vodka in my hand fused with my fingers as if it were a part of my body. For a stupid second I gazed at the transparent liquid. As still as a frozen pool.
Now what? Bernabeu's ghost? Some soul in anguish?
I closed my eyes, expecting the worst. When I opened them again I jumped with fright, letting go of the glass, which shattered in slow motion on the stone floor.
A blond ghost dressed in white was standing in front of me.
"Will you pour me one?" said Ana Laura, her face screwed up. "I've had a terrible nightmare."
Feigning interest, I served her a little vodka in a glass. I cleared my throat, like a chicken in the slaughterhouse, and, trying to sound calm, asked what she had dreamed.
Ana Laura described her dream down to the last detail.
I felt as if someone had run a piece of ice down my spine.
Ana Laura's dream was identical to mine.
"It must be exhaustion," I said, trying to sound like I believed myself.
She swallowed her drink in one gulp and, giving me a kiss on the cheek, said, "Of course!" Then she went off to bed.
I drank several more glasses of vodka before I found sufficient courage to return to bed, and the unsettling dreamworld.
The next day I awoke with an unbearable headache, feeling as if a sword had been stuck from my forehead all the way down through my neck. I looked at my watch. It was past one-thirty in the afternoon.
Holding my head with both hands to prevent unnecessary pain, I went to the kitchen and took four aspirin.
Ana Laura was nowhere in sight. I went into the bathroom and took a steaming shower, gradually lowering the temperature until I could no longer stand the freezing water. Then I ran back to the bedroom.
The sword had disappeared but had left behind a dull hammering in my skull. I got dressed but didn't have enough strength to do anything, so I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, wishing I hadn't drunk so much vodka the night before.
. . . I was in the cellar in front of a large metal door. I tried to open it, but I couldn't.
I frantically kicked it with all my strength. It wouldn't budge. A gripping panic overcame me. I wasn't going to be able to get out of the damned hiding place.
I began to hear faint shouts calling my name, over and over.
It was Ana Laura. I couldn't tell where her voice was coming from, but I could hear it clearly now. . . .
It was already dark outside when I opened my eyes. Only a light pain remained in my temples from my earlier hangover. The house was dark, so I turned on the lights as I called for Ana Laura.
She didn't answer. I looked all over the house.
There was no sign of her. There weren't even dirty dishes or glasses in the kitchen.
Everything was just as I had left it earlier that afternoon.
I went outside to see if she had taken the car.
The Volkswagen was still where we had parked the night before. It was freezing outside, so I went back into the house and tried to calm myself. She had to be somewhere nearby.
But where? Was she out walking in the woods in the dark? Maybe she had walked into town? Not likely -- it was almost two miles away.
Soon I began to feel a tremendous emptiness in the pit of my stomach, and my cheeks were burning.
Just as in my dream, I was being overcome by an unbearable panic attack.
Though I knew better, I poured myself a drink, this time choosing scotch. The memory of the hellish vodka hangover was still fresh in my mind.
What should I do now? Go look for her in town?
Had she seen that I was sleeping so long and decided to run some errands? Without the car? Without leaving a note?
I emptied the glass of scotch in one gulp and immediately poured myself another. I was trying to control myself . . . unsuccessfully.
I emptied that glass too. Then I put on a jacket and went out to the car. I was going to go into town to look for her. She had to be there.
Just before I got into the car, I heard -- just like in my dream -- a voice calling my name in the distance.
Was I hallucinating?
Where was the voice coming from?
I looked in the glove compartment for the flashlight, but it wasn't there. Then I remembered that Ana Laura had used it to search the attic.
The shouts were further apart now, but I could hear them more clearly. They were coming from behind the house.
I turned on the car's headlights. They didn't help much, but it was better than nothing.
I lumbered up the small hill behind the house to where the shouts seemed to be originating.
By now I was sure I wasn't hallucinating. Ana Laura must be in danger!
It had snowed the night before, and the ground was very slippery. I was wearing city shoes, so every two steps I had to perform acrobatics so as not to fall on my face. That, and my girlfriend's shouting, made me think that maybe I was having another nightmare. But when I slipped and fell, smashing my face against a rock, I knew I wasn't dreaming.
I actually saw stars, and my right cheek burned with pain. There is no worse injury than one sustained in freezing temperatures. I got up as best I could and tried to reorient myself.
The Volkswagen's headlights were by now only dim, and since I was directly behind the house, it blocked their light. The curtains in the kitchen windows, which looked out at where I was, were closed and only gave off a faint light around the edges.
All I could hear was the howling of the wind as it whispered through the trees in the dark forest.
Was that all it had been?
A trick of nature?
Then suddenly, from a few yards ahead of me, I clearly heard Ana Laura's voice, followed by a sharp echo.
I felt my way toward the source of the sounds.
Now her voice was only two or three yards away, but it sounded heavy and distorted, as if she had placed a cardboard tube in front of her mouth before shouting.
My eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness at this point, and I could make out a shadow in the distance with an arch above it. . . . It was the well!
Sweating heavily, and with my face still numb from the fall, I grabbed the edge of the well and again clearly heard Ana Laura's voice, calling for help from inside the well.
"Ana Laura?"
"Here . . . down here . . . ," she said wearily.
"What happened? Are you okay?"
"I feel like shit and I'm freezing to death. Get me out of here!"
"Okay. Calm down! Let me get the flashlight."
"I have the flashlight down here, but the batteries have run out."
Ana Laura's voice sounded hollow.
"How deep is it?"
"About nine feet. Hurry up! I'm standing in freezing water, and it's ridiculously cold down here."
I tried to see the bottom but couldn't.
"Hang on just a little longer," I told her while I took off my jacket and threw it inside. "Here's this. Don't worry. I'm going to the house to find something to get you out with."
"Hurry up!"
My eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness now, and I cautiously returned to the house. I was not eager to fall again. I went to the kitchen door, which was the nearest entrance to the house. It wouldn't open. Then I remembered that the door had been locked from the inside.
I made my way around the corner of the house to the car and the degree of safety that the headlights afforded.
Finally I reached the front door. The first thing I did was open the kitchen curtains.
They didn't provide much light, but it was something.
Then I looked around for something I could use to get Ana Laura out of this mess she'd gotten herself into.
Even if there had been a good rope -- which there wasn't -- and I could somehow have secured it to the arch above the well, it wouldn't be easy for her to grip the rope with her frozen fingers and scale the walls; that happens only in movies.
Suddenly, I thought of something. I went to the door that led to the attic and lowered the wooden ladder leading up to it. I tried to pull it off the door where it was attached.
Impossible.
I went to look for a hatchet I had seen near the car and had used to cut firewood.
After several chops with the hatchet, the ladder gave way.
It wasn't very long, only a few yards, but it would help.
I took the ladder and carried it out the kitchen door.
"Here I am, my love," I said, feeling incredibly stupid.
"We can talk later. Just get me out of here," she yelled, then more quietly, "idiot."
"I'm going to hand a ladder down. Be careful, I don't want to hit your head."
"That's all I need. Go ahead, lower it down!"
I eased the ladder down with its rough ends first, thinking they'd offer some resistance against the slippery floor.
I leaned way over the edge of the well but still couldn't feel the ladder coming into contact with anything.
"Try to grip it, Annie, but carefully, because -- "
"Owww!"
" -- it has splinters on the end."
I felt her grab the ladder, and then after some huffing and foul language, her head appeared out of the darkness at the rim of the well.
Without speaking, I helped her out, and we went quickly back to the house.
I took her into the bedroom, covered her with the down comforter, and poured her a large glass of brandy. Ana Laura was shivering uncontrollably, and her lips were a color somewhere between purple and blue. I made her drink all the brandy.
My first thought had been to put her into a steaming shower, but that might have killed her or at the least ruptured a bunch of blood vessels. The risk of pneumonia seemed the lesser of two evils.
When she finished the brandy, she breathed deeply and started coughing. Good, I thought. That would help her warm up.
I built up the fire in the bedroom until it roared, then went into the bathroom and wet a towel with hot water. I squeezed out the excess water, went back to Ana Laura, and removed her clothing. Her skin was covered with goose bumps, and her teeth chattered noisily. I rubbed her body roughly with the hot towel. I went back to heat up the towel again and repeated the process several times. She was starting to look better, thanks to the fireplace, which by now had warmed up the room quite nicely.
Soon she stopped trembling and shivering and seemed to relax a little.
I poured her more brandy, and she drank it eagerly.
I got out some flannel pajamas and put them as close to the fire as I dared. When they were hot, I helped Ana Laura put them on. She was feeling better by the minute.
When she finished her third glass of brandy, the color had returned to her face and her cheeks were rosy again.
I left her alone for a few minutes to go make some coffee.
It was very hot, so she had to drink it in tiny sips. By the time she finished her coffee, she was a new person.
I was dying of curiosity but didn't want to grill her yet about how she'd ended up at the bottom of the well. After I'd covered her with the blankets and put more wood on the fire, I asked her if she wanted anything else. She said no.
I gave her a light kiss on the lips and left the room, closing the door behind me. I barely made out a weak "thank you" from behind the door.
Since I had spent the whole day sleeping, the last thing I wanted to do was go back to bed, so I tried to write a little. The words on the screen looked like ants crawling on a wall. There were hundreds of them, but they didn't mean anything.
After a half hour of writing, I erased everything I'd written and started pacing around the room.
The day's events had made me nervous and edgy, but at the same time they had pulled me from the stupor I'd been in. There was no doubt that the experience had been completely different from anything I had ever gone through.
I had never rescued a beautiful princess before.
Copyright ©1997 by Javier Valdés
Copyright ©1997 by Hoja Casa Editorial, S.A. de C.V.
English translation copyright ©2006 by Javier Valdés
Table of Contents
CONTENTS
People Like Us
Neighbors
Cornelia
Beat Me to Death
Flidia
Orquídea