Her previous lovers had not been nearly as considerate as Ulises. He did not seek selfish pleasure, instead working her over with his fingers, his mouth. His tongue was careful and slow against her folds. He was skilled at this art.
Ulises spilled on her belly or her thighs most times; she appreciated the gesture. There was little need for remedies to prevent pregnancy this way. She’d never liked the taste of the tea made from wild yam, which prevented a man’s seed from taking root in the womb. Estrella had brewed such remedies for her, quietly, for these preparations could not be discussed in polite society. But she did it all the same and Perla drank the tea. It scalded her tongue.
For a long time, she’d longed for a true lover, not a brief encounter and a wordless goodbye or the shameful, degrading affair with a married man. Now she had a husband, Mr. Ulises Linares. An exotic trinket, a fetching paramour.
I must not dwell on what was,she thought.This is a new life for me. I’m a new person.
But when she woke up in the middle of the night, alone in her bed, her thoughts went to the past.
—
For a few months she fears her niece will reveal the truth, that she will accuse Perla of murder. But the child does not speak, and when she does begin to talk, she seems to have forgotten all about that day when Encarnación tumbled down the stairs.
Perla thinks that if the police don’t discern the truth, God will smite her, he will deliver a heavenly punishment. She attends mass and trembles in her seat, she avoids the confessional and prays for the salvation of her soul. But the days follow one another, ordinary and dull, until she begins to believe her punishment is her dreary life.
While her niece has grown quiet, the speeches of Perla’s mother are incessant. From morning until night Genoveva speaks, narrating events of her youth, indifferent to whether she has an audience. When Perla interrupts her, she simply continues her narrative. The laudanum she takes makes her slur her words at times, makes her eyes hazy as she slips into the past, into memories of other years. Her mother withers away like that, sitting in a rattan chair, muttering inanities.
Perla’s father grows more vociferous. He taps his cane and sometimes he slams it so hard against the floor that Perla thinks it might pierce through stone. He hollers, demanding and exacting. Bring a pillow, boil another cup of tea, check the figures on the ledger, summon the doctor because the ache in his back has returned.
There are also the responsibilities of the household, of the guests, and now that Encarnación is dead, the rearing of her daughter. Her father yells, her mother breaks a cup, somewhere the girl weeps, and the guests have complaints about the tough meat served for supper the previous day.
She presses her hands to her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. She would like to curl up in a ball in the center of the bed, to curl up and grow diminutive, as small as a grain of rice, so that she can slip out through a keyhole.
Somewhere in the house her father hollers, calling her name.
This is hell,Perla thinks.This is hell and I’m besieged by devils.
—
Perla sleeps little. In the first few months after Encarnación’s funeral, she has nightmares about her sister and her brother, terrible dreams in whichthey rise from their graves and try to drag her into a casket. Though funnily enough it is Encarnación who provides Perla with the idea that finally solidifies their finances and allows her relief from her worries.
Perla remembers what Encarnación said about how people in Puerco Ahogado borrow money from friends for important festivities, no matter if they can pay it back.
An idea blooms in her mind. Her father used to extend credit to his workers at times, deducting a small amount from their paycheck. It wouldn’t be different if Perla extended people in town credit like that. Reasonable amounts, which would be repaid with interest and generate a profit for the Incláns.
She discusses her plan with her father and with Cándido. Cándido is skeptical about the venture.
“It’s not proper for a lady to engage in such dealings,” he says to Osorio. “Imagine what an awful sight it would be if you or your daughter had to go out into the streets, knocking on doors with a bag in hand, collecting debts.”
“That’s what you’re for,” Osorio says. “You can knock and count the money.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, yes, you. You’d get a cut. It would come in handy, I’m sure. People lend money in every town, Puerco Ahogado is no different, and my daughter has done the math. We’d be able to manage a few loans.”
“But it’s simply not proper,” Cándido says, looking aghast.
“What’s proper? That you have holes in your shoes and you own a single good suit?” Perla replies.
Cándido blushes. She knows her father will chide her later for speaking bluntly. She is supposed to pretend she does not know such details about Cándido’s life. But she is tired, and she suspects shame might move him to action.
Their venture provides a certain amount of relief in her life, yes, it brings a fresh source of income, but the many vexations that afflict herstill exist: her mother’s ramblings, her father’s unkindness, the unwanted child under her tutelage. Her burdens are heavy; she must bear them alone.
Alone,she whispers at night, and she thinks of her siblings, both dead. One day she’ll be all alone, with her mother gone and her father too, and it’ll be a relief, but she’ll also feel terror, trapped in this old house, trapped by herself.
Though there is Inés. At least there will always be Inés to keep her company. She is chained to this place as much as Perla.
This is our hell,she thinks.
