Ginny was a wonderful dancer. She told me that she’d met Edgar Yates at a dance thrown at a yacht club and that he’d been immediately smitten with her. I could believe this. You could be taken with Ginny at first sight, and you could certainly be hopelessly in love after a dance.
She was alive. I’d never met someone as alive as her. Every word she said, every motion of her hands, it was electric. She was a radiant creature. I was happy to bask in her warmth. Happy to be her friend, happy just to long for her if her heart was already taken by Edgar.
They were sugary sweet, those October days spent in Ginny’s company.
The bright green of the trees at Briar’s Commons turned to a flaming scarlet, as if scorching the sky, and then it was December and the beginning of a tragedy. Sweetness gone sour in a matter of weeks. December blotted out all joy and delight.
But perhaps it did not begin then. Perhaps evil had infected our world long before, the same way a worm awaits at the center of an apple. You take a bite, taste the concealed rot, spit out the awful flesh, and gaze at that pale, leprous worm wiggling at the core of the foul fruit.
Yes, when I think of it, it must have all started during the Halloween Ball, even before the séance. That was when I spotted that terrible darkness in Virginia’s eyes. The seeds of tragedy had taken root by then.
1908: 3
Her brother was distantand ill-humored in the days after his confrontation with Uncle Arturo. When they headed into town for a trip to the market, he remained quiet and glum. Arturo accompanied them—he wanted to post letters and buy a few items he’d forgotten to pack—and as a result, Tadeo spent the entire trip mutely steering their wagon. Arturo responded with an equally stiff and pointed silence.
Alba wished she had ridden a horse instead of sitting between two taciturn men who resembled a couple of enemy fighters engaged in a brief truce before shots were fired again. Even as they walked into the church and listened to mass, which was expected during such an excursion—for the market and the weekend mass were always held on the same day—they both maintained their icy and disgruntled façades.
After mass, they walked around the plaza, looking at the vendors whose wares rested upon woven mats or blankets on the ground. There were men selling limes and chiles and firewood and eggs, women who knit rebozos and embroidered blouses, and a few people who offered cooked foods, like tamales. The arcade surrounding the plaza housed a handful of permanent shops, including the post office and the pharmacy.
Tadeo immediately began going down his list of necessarysupplies and filling the canvas bags they’d brought. Arturo, on the other hand, asked Alba to accompany him into the pharmacy. The store carried dyes, soaps, syrups, hairbrushes, and perfumes. Arturo wanted eau de cologne. The pharmacist had only one brand, though he did sell three types of perfume for ladies.
“I should have guessed they’d never stock anything better,” Arturo said.
He seemed cross, but Alba was pleased because the pharmacist told her she could try the perfumes if she liked, and her hands flew over the glass bottles. Tucked away in a corner of the store, next to the very end of the counter, they sampled the fragrances.
“Can’t you inquire if they might bring another brand next time you come in, as a special order?” she asked, carefully dabbing a glass stopper against her wrist.
“I suppose. I’m simply used to having what I want at my fingertips. You can buy anything in Mexico City: French lace and silk, English linens, and Spanish wine.”
“It must be costly to purchase all that.”
“A life without luxuries would be terribly dull,” he said. “Once in a while we must have a taste of what we desire.”
“Catherine de’ Medici perfumed her gloves. I think it might be fun to do that. But Mother would think me mad, and she would never let me buy French lace.” She shook her head and sniffed at her wrist. “I don’t think I like this perfume, it’s too sweet. I don’t understand why everyone likes roses—”
Arturo reached for her hand and lifted it, inhaling deeply. He threw her a self-assured smile that he must have practiced in front of the mirror, or at dozens of tertulias. A perfect smile. He was terribly handsome, he really was, and polished, too. A gentleman.
“What do you like, if not roses?”
“Orange blossoms, I suppose.”
“You should try a violet fragrance. Not the cheap substitute made of ionone, but a true fragrance made of violet essence.”
“They won’t have that here.”
“No, and yet you must have violets one day. Try this one,” he suggested, and grabbed another bottle.
He pressed the glass stopper against her wrist, making her shiver at the sudden coldness, then raised his eyes as if noticing the jolt of her pulse. They looked at each other.
“Alba, you won’t guess what I have!” Valentín said.
He emerged suddenly, intruding into the secluded corner where they lingered. Alba pulled her hand back, surprised. She looked mutely at Valentín while her uncle placed the perfume bottle back on the counter.
Arturo straightened the cuffs of his suit, giving Valentín a careless look. “Hello, Mr. Pimentel. I see you’ve forgotten how to greet someone properly. My niece is a lady.”
“Ah, hello, Mr. Velarde,” Valentín said, smiling at her uncle and looking chastised. Hastily he took off his hat, pressing it against his chest, and bobbed his head. “Miss Quiroga.”
The bob of the head was quite funny, as if Valentín were doing an impression of a city gentleman, and Alba laughed lightly. The role did not suit him.
