Read Online Eva Luna by Isabel Allende - Free Book Online Page B

begging in each telling for new particulars. The martyrdom of Santa Lucia was my favorite. I wanted to hear it over and over, in minute detail: why Lucia rejected the emperor who loved her; how they tore out her eyes; whether it was true that her eyeballs had shot a beam of light that blinded the emperor, and that she grew two splendid new blue eyes much more beautiful than the ones she had lost.
    My poor madrina ’s faith was unshakable; no misfortune that ever befell her could change it. Only recently, when the Pope came here, I got permission to take her from her nursing home to see him; it would have been a shame for her to miss seeing the Pontiff in his white habit and gold cross, preaching his indemonstrable convictions in perfect Spanish and Indian dialects—as demanded by the occasion. When she saw him advancing down the freshly painted streets in his fishbowl of bulletproof glass, amid flowers, cheers, waving pennants, and bodyguards, my madrina , who is now absolutely ancient, fell to her knees, persuaded that the Prophet Elias was on a tourist’s trip. I was afraid she would be crushed in the crowd and I tried to get her to leave, but she would not move until I bought a hair from the Pope’s head as a relic. Many people seized that opportunity to become righteous; some promised to forgive their debtors and, to avoid saddening the Holy Father, not to mention the class struggle or contraceptives. In my own heart I had no enthusiasm for the illustrious visitor, because I had no happy memories of religion. One Sunday when I was a little girl, my madrina took me to our parish church and made me kneel down in a curtained wooden box; my fingers were clumsy and I could not cross them as she had taught me. I became aware of a strong breath on the other side of the grille: Tell me your sins, the voice commanded, and instantly I forgot all the sins I had invented. I did not know what to answer, although I felt obliged to try to think of something, even something venial, but I could not dredge up a single transgression.
    â€œDo you touch yourself with your hands?”
    â€œYes . . .”
    â€œOften, daughter?”
    â€œEvery day.”
    â€œEvery day! How often?”
    â€œI don’t keep count . . . many times . . .”
    â€œThat is a most serious offense in the eyes of God!”
    â€œI didn’t know, Father. And if I wear gloves, is that a sin, too?”
    â€œGloves! But what are you saying, you foolish girl? Are you mocking me?”
    â€œNo-no,” I stammered in terror, at the same time thinking how difficult it would be to wash my face, brush my teeth, or scratch myself while wearing gloves.
    â€œYou must promise not to do that again. Purity and innocence are a girl’s best virtues. You will pray five hundred Ave Marías in penance, so God will pardon you.”
    â€œI can’t, Father,” I answered, because I could only count to twenty.
    â€œWhat do you mean, you can’t! ” the priest bellowed, and a rain of saliva sprayed over me through the grille. I burst from the box, but my madrina nabbed me and held me by one ear while she consulted with the priest on the advisability of putting me out to work before my character was even more warped and I lost my almighty soul forever.
    After my mother’s death came the hour of Professor Jones. He died of old age, disillusioned with the world and his own learning, but I would swear that he died in peace. Faced with the impossibility of embalming himself, thus assuring a dignified eternity amid his English furniture and his books, he left instructions in his will for his remains to be sent to the distant city of his birth. He did not want the local cemetery to be his final resting place, to lie covered with foreign dust beneath a merciless sun, and in promiscuous proximity with who knows what kind of people, as he used to say. He spent his last days beneath the ceiling fan in